


In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida

by calicokat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 270,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicokat/pseuds/calicokat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Season 1: a complete alternate vision for Supernatural. </p><p>The Winchesters grapple with the aftermath of “Devil’s Trap,” and their own, personal demons. </p><p>Sam slips into a coma. That'd be bad enough, if Dean wasn't falling into Sam's nightmares every time he sleeps. What sucks for Sam may be deadly for his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with Black Regalia.
> 
> Originally posted to LiveJournal July 14, 2006 - November 26, 2006. No beta reader, any mistakes are our own.
> 
> Supernatural and all related properties © The CW Television Network, and are used without permission.

Dean opened his eyes.

His vision was blurry, and he tried to remember what had happened before he blacked out. He’d been tired, real tired, tired from exertion, but mostly from blood loss. Sam and John had been talking. Dean had tried to pay attention, but it was like his ears were stuffed with cotton, like the world was miles off through a haze of static. After that… 

Dean couldn’t remember what came next.

A harsh white light filled the Impala. Dean squinted towards it. Headlights. Headlights of what…? The side of his car was crumpled in like it had been hit by a—truck.

_We got in a_ car _accident? Then—_

Dean breathed in a bloody, wet breath. When he focused he could make out the relief-lit forms of Sam and John. They weren’t moving.

_Shit._

Outside, the door to the truck opened and the old man inside maneuvered himself out, his feet hitting the soft dirt of the field next to the highway. 

He moved forward towards the still, black car, walking with the careful deliberation of the possessed. He walked around the back and paused on the far side. He grinned sickeningly down at Dean, who was conscious, but unable to do anything worthwhile. Dean would have the worst death, knowing what had been done and what was being done to him.

The man yanked the door to the driver’s side open and Sam fell out to the side, hitting the ground at an unnatural angle, his body sliding in the dirt. The fact that Sam made no motion to cushion his fall or push himself up was not a good sign. The man leaned across the front seat, grabbing John Winchester’s sleeve, pulling him slowly but inexorably towards him.

Breath shuddered from Dean weakly. His anger rose. His body wouldn’t respond. Sam had the gun. Even if Dean’d had it, he doubted he could’ve shot steady -- that John would’ve killed him for blowing the last bullet, aside. He gritted his teeth and slipped his right hand under his left arm to grope for the door handle as surreptitiously as he could. If he could get out of the car, if he could get on his feet…

Those were two big ifs.

John slumped over the seat as he was dragged, but the hand dropped him when the old man stumbled back and fell. Sam was barely conscious. He tasted blood and dirt, and air seemed incredibly lacking, but his muscles were trained and there was no Winchester that was utterly unable to act, even in a semi-conscious state. He had grabbed the old man’s leg, sending him sprawling, but that wouldn’t stop him from getting up again.

Dean stumbled out of the car, doubled over as he staggered forward. Adrenaline pumped in his veins. There wasn’t much blood for it to urge around. Creedence Clearwater Revival crooned into their next song, from the tape deck. Dean’s memory followed the lyrics despite his muted hearing. He focused on the music to keep moving.

_The man from the magazine said I was on my way.  
Somewhere I lost connections, ran out of songs to play.  
I came into town, a one night stand, looks like my plans fell through  
Oh! Lord, stuck in Lodi again._

Dean lurched towards the old man rising from the ground with preternatural ease. Dean clutched at his arm and threw a punch to his stomach with all the strength he could muster.

Sam’s head swam wildly. He wasn’t going to be much help to anyone, in a fight. John had taken the brunt of the truck when it slammed into the Impala, and was out cold. Dean was on his own in this endeavor.

The old man fell over again, his head clunking unhealthily, but not lethally, against the half solid earth. It was a demon, but not _the_ demon. It stared up at the oldest of the brothers Winchester with large black eyes and began to rise again, ignoring the bones that cricked with arthritis.

Dean glared those black eyes down. The body was old, but Dean wasn’t sure how much he’d have to break it to stop the demon cold. Meg had fallen seven stories and she’d passed out for awhile, but lived. Dean took a swing at the old man’s head, fist connecting with weathered, wrinkled skin. There was no room for sympathy, right now.

It took some beating for the old body to give out. Had it been merely human, the fall alone would have done it, but the demon sustained the body much longer than was natural. Eventually, the trucker lay still.

Half in the car, his legs up in the door, over the floor of the driver’s side, and his front face down in the dirt next to it, Sam was just as stationary, though he had that animation that was somewhat lacking from John’s form, laying over the front seat.

When Dean was sure the trucker had stopped moving, he didn’t check twice. He was already panting with exhaustion as he dragged himself to his brother’s side, pushing one bloody palm against the hood of the car. He could feel the weight of his cell phone in his pocket, but he didn’t want to call 911 right now and give the bastard on the ground another person to possess.

“Sam.”

Dean knew if he dropped to his knees to check on Sam, he wouldn’t be getting back up.

Sam half pushed himself up with his arm, fully falling out of the car. He spat and coughed. He tried to talk, but his mouth was numb. From the blood dribbling out of his mouth, he was pretty certain he’d bit his tongue.

“Gotta get to the hospital.” Every syllable came out with a lisp, a hissing sound.

Dean shook his head. “Can’t call an ambulance. Demon’ll jump bodies… Gotta get rid of it, first.” He couldn’t remember how far Sam had said the nearest hospital was. He hissed in pain through his teeth as the adrenaline began to fade and hurt ached through his body. 

Sam lifted his head shakily. He glanced back at John with fogged eyes, but he could tell their father was bleeding pretty intensely, and Dean had lost a lot of blood before the crash had even occurred.

“Dean… if we don’t, we’re gonna die anyways.”

Dean’s stomach sank. It was probably true. He kept thinking, _If we could just…_

“How bad are you hurt?”

Sam shook his head, then instantly regretted it, groaning. “Unno…head’s pretty b-bad. Probably a concussion…” His Winchesterness was kicking in, and he tried to concentrate, to gauge his injuries. “Think my arm is broken…” He wasn’t compos mentis enough to tell his right from left. “Legs…can’t feel my legs.” It could just be shock, could also be… Now was not the time to think about that possibility. He looked up at Dean. “What about Dad? Is he… breathing?”

Dean cursed under his breath, realizing he was in the best condition of all of them. He limped around the car door and crawled halfway into the front seat, trying not to step on Sam. Even in the light of the truck, his vision was blacking. The truck had been his first plan, but there was no one in any condition to drive it. He groped numbly for a pulse for a minute before he put his hand in front of John’s mouth, and waited. After one tense moment he felt a weak exhalation of moist air against the back of it.

“Yeah. Yeah. He’s breathing. Alright…” He was light headed. “Alright. I… I’m gonna call emergency, and then I gotta… do somethin’ about truck guy.”

Dean fumbled for his cell phone. He was doing all right, so far, just one more surge of adrenaline, and maybe he could finish him. He had his limbs, he hadn’t hit his head too hard: it was just his blood, just his brain starving for air; just that one little problem.

“Dean, sit down,” Sam managed to make out around his swollen tongue. He reached out for his brother, tugging him downwards. He could tell Dean was close to passing out.

Sam managed to turn himself over, rolling onto his back, and then he felt his ribs and gasped. Oh man, something was totally pressing against something else in there. He hadn't even noticed it before. He felt the phantom sensation of a steering wheel against his chest, and he was sure there would be a circle shaped bruise on him.

"Dean sit down..." He muttered, feeling out of it. "Sit down." He swallowed hard. He had to get some kind of control.

Dean could hear Sam’s words: _sit down, sit down_. He clutched at the top edge of the car door one-handed as Sam tugged on his pants. Down was gonna mean out. Definitely out. Dean had the nagging feeling he hadn't done enough to ensure their safety at a hospital. That demon... that demon was still right there. It needed an exorcism...

Dean held the phone close to his face as he punched the numbers in with his thumb. Then he realized... he didn't know where they were. He didn't know how far they were from that cabin. For a minute, it was all he could think about.

"Sam. Where are we?"

"GPS," he garbled out. "It has GPS. Make the call. Make the call." He coughed and half sat up. Somehow he managed to maneuver himself around to the car, leaning against it. He lifted a hand to his father's face, half heartedly wiping some of the blood from his rough skin.

"Exorcizo te... omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei..." he muttered from memory. He turned and spat blood from his numb mouth. The Latin was shaky and the pronunciation bad with his tongue swollen, but it would do.

The body on the ground twitched.

"Patris omnipotentis...et....et in noimine Jesu. In noimine Jesu...Christo." He patted his father's jacket as the trucker convulsed, finding no book. The book, the book...where was the book? His Latin was good (hell, he was almost fluent in it), but not that good. He strained his mind, trying to remember where they'd put the journal. 

"Christi Filii ejus, domini et judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus." He pushed himself away from the car with a harsh cough, trying to drag himself towards the back seat. Maybe it was back there. "Sancti...sancti..."

The 911 operator wasn't real cooperative. She kept asking inconvenient questions like "What is your name?" that Dean had to ignore because he wasn't sure what fake ID was in his wallet right now and Dean Winchester was long dead.

"Look... yeah, four people injured... Yeah, a white eighteen w-wheeler and a sixty... sixty seven Chevy I-impala..." He couldn't see. Not a thing. "Hehe... I'd love to stay on the line... It's... s'kinda a question of _ability_..."

"Sancti, ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei...dei....Crap." What was the guy's name? Sam crawled towards the body, touching it as it kicked. He'd have to hope this was good enough. "Quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum suum vocare dignatus est, ut fiat templum Dei vivi, et Spiritus Sanctus habitet in eo." The words rolled out of him now, out of habit. He had spoken them since he was small, worshipped the language, the tongue of the law when he was older. He could do this.

"Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem." A world on fire. He took a deep breath. "Dean, I need the journal. Need the...journal." He looked back at his brother, hoping that maybe it was in his brother's coat. The Catholic opening was a classic. It was as good as anything to start with, but he'd need that journal to know which one to finish it with.

The old man punched him suddenly and spat, and his saliva burned. Sam rolled to the side and cried out as his broken ribs dug in. "Spiritus sancti..." He pressed his hand to the man's face, and the demon sprang back. "Spiritus sancti..."

The cell phone dropped from Dean's fingers to thunk against the wet soil beneath. "They got my car, Sam..." Dean muttered, hooking his arm over the door as he tried to stay on his feet. Sam had just said something. Something important. There were still things he needed to do. Because the car had... the car... "Those sons of bitches got my car!" He said it like he could. not. believe it. Everything was black. But he felt warm, now. Comfortable warm. He couldn’t remember what Sam needed.

Sam was coughing, and he couldn't hear Dean's words, the roaring in his ears too much. No choice now. He'd just have to keep going and hope that Catholic would be enough.

"Ephpheta, quod est, Adaperire." He took a deep breath, but then he felt a weight settle on his chest, and he coughed. Hands wrapped around his throat. "In odorem suavitatis....su..s...gnh..." He couldn't breath. He gasped and choked. He could feel an intense pain in his chest, something sinking deep into something soft. Oh god, his lungs, his chest. Oh god. He couldn't summon the breath to get the words out, but he kept mouthing them, his vision blurring and darkening. "Tu.... autem effugare, diabole...dia...b.... appropinquabit....enim judicium Dei...Dei." His lips barely moved in the pattern necessary to make such words, but he could hear them echoing in his head, and all he could think was: this has to be the most poorly done exorcism I've ever performed. _Dei. In noimine dei...in noimine..._

Dean's arm slipped off the car door as he sunk to his knees. He hit the dirt face first. He was warm, and he was comfortable. He felt good for the first time in days. Yeah... there was some stuff to do... but he'd just take a breather, right here... just for a...

Sam reached up with a hand, and he felt a face above him, but then his hand was numb and he couldn't feel anything at all.

When the ambulance arrived at the site, the truck driver was dead, and Sam was still as a rock, or a doll. The paramedics had almost given up when they managed to force him to breathe. They didn't look happy about it -- after all, they didn't know just how long he'd been without oxygen.

\----

The three battered bodies were loaded up, and by the time John awoke, he was in a hospital bed, his body heavily bandaged. His memories were fuzzy, but he saw his eldest son, his baby boy in the next hospital bed over, and despite himself he felt panic trip over him.

"Dean...Dean, wake up." He didn't even raise his voice. It wasn't his style.

Dean had been fading in and out of consciousness since his transfusion. He'd even eaten a little on his own that morning. The fact that there was a cute nurse encouraging him on had helped a lot. _Rebecca Schiffer_. Dean smiled a little at that first conscious thought. He blinked against the fluorescent lights above his bed, expression sobering. He slowly turned his head to look over at the bed beside him. His neck was kind of stiff. His lip tugged up in a smirk at his dad's fading panicked expression. (Not quite so obvious on John's face as it would have been with more open people.)

"Afternoon, dad."

John nodded a bit, as if checking off the list the fact that Dean was now verified to be alright. He glanced around the room, frowning.

"Where's your brother?" He thought back, remembered the demon being inside of him, begging Sam to shoot him, driving away, towards the hospital...Had they made it? Had he just passed out? If so, he thought Sam was probably elsewhere in the hospital. Sam had been the only uninjured one, besides his bruises... John realized through his grogginess that he didn’t remember being injured as badly as he was now, himself. "What happened?"

Dean's cocky smirk faded. He worked his mouth a second, swallowing before he spoke.

"Got broadsided with an eighteen wheeler. Sam... he's... He's alive. ICU."

John settled back into the bed slowly, his mind abuzz. "...it was them, wasn't it?" Too much of a coincidence. Coincidences didn't occur to Winchesters

"Yeah. Guy got out. Tried to finish us... Can't remember much of it. Think Sam pulled off an exorcism, maybe." Dean scowled at the television running advertisements for breath strips. "We gotta get Sam better and get out of here. Gonna be hard to keep the story straight. Bet they've already run our IDs." Dean waved his hand in greeting. "I'm Roger Glover."

John made a huffing noise and didn't smile, but Dean would know that as a laugh. "And I am?" He would need to know, so he could respond appropriately.

"Derek Montgomery, accordin’ to your charts. I dunno what Sam's name is. Just kept callin’ him my cousin." It might be lucky, if it was Sam Winchester--'cause that'd match up with the car insurance, though it meant the demons might track them down faster. _So much for touching up the paint on the Impala. Man. My car’s totaled. That burns._

John nodded slowly. "Good." He paused. "Good." Then nodded again -- he was thinking. They were in trouble. It seemed like they weren't, but they were. Normal folks would consider being at the hospital after a life threatening car accident a good thing, but for them it was just as dodgy. They were easy prey here, not to mention their questionable identities. "We need to get your brother and move out as soon as we can." He shifted his legs - bullet hole, he felt, but no breaks. Good, his legs were still usable.

"Better play dead until he's downgraded outta ICU. I don't wanna move him yet. Say he ruptured two organs, broke his arm... head trauma, wasn’t breathin’ when they found him." Even when they got Sam outta the hospital, he was gonna have to lay up somewhere for a couple weeks, maybe longer. Dean wondered if their dad would stick around for that... He doubted it.

John made a slight face at the phrase 'play dead', which was a poor choice of words, but nodded. "We get ourselves out of here as soon as we can." He looked over at his son. "What's your condition? If you can walk, we need to leave; if there's no chance of something bursting." His mind was moving fast - he wouldn't have survived this long if he couldn't think on his feet. "We find a place to set up. Somewhere not as vulnerable. Regroup. Sam can stay here until he's moveable, but we'll have to keep a close eye on him." There was a part of John Winchester that hated to think like this - cutting losses - about his sons. He was their father, and that paternal part of him needed to look after them. But the fact was that if he and Dean stayed here to take care of Sam they might all end up getting killed. They'd do what they could to protect him, but they needed to at least move themselves to safety. So long as he and Dean stayed alive, the greater chance Sam had of surviving.

Still, John felt dirty knowing he was leaving one son behind to save the other.

Dean didn't like that idea. He didn't like that idea one bit. Leaving Sam at the hospital, leaving him vulnerable... If Dean was still in recovery, he could be that much closer to him. Not that he'd _know_ if Sam was under attack, even right now... But he knew just what John Winchester was thinking.

"I dunno, dad, I lost a lot of blood," he said, flashing a grin with a lift of his brows. So sorry.

John gave his son a _look_. "You'll lose a whole lot more if a demon comes in here in the night." He cleared his throat, pushing himself up with a wince and reached for his own chart, looking it over. "It's just one trip, Dean. Once we have a safe place to stay, you can rest for a bit." His boys had soldiered through plenty, and John expected them to keep that up.

Dean was turning his options over in his mind when he heard himself saying:

"Yes, sir." 

That wasn't what he was going for. It was a whole lot easier standing up to John when Sam was there with him. He shot his IV drip a nasty look. It was true he'd be a lot more useful to Sam if they found the Impala and geared up. From what he'd heard at the cabin, Sam might not even be in danger from demons, on his own -- just of being released into the custody of the police.

The time he’d spent possessed by the demon was somewhat fuzzy for John, as it was for all possessees, but it seemed the demon had made a special attempt to let him see and feel everything he'd been forced to do. A special little torture, devised just for him.

So, John remembered, he remembered those words. _My plans for you, Sammy. You, and all the children like you._ They made him...antsy. They made him worry, for his son, for both of his sons. For the implications. It was easier when evil was black and good was white - spirits were like that. Evil was evil and the right thing to do was clear as day. Shades of grey were more difficult, and Sam was currently residing in middle grey, and John just plain didn't like that.

He put his chart down, however, when the doctor came to talk to them.

The man was in the middle of his speech to them about their conditions when John interrupted him.

"When can we check out?"

The doctor looked confused, baffled, even.

"I...well. I wouldn't suggest it for at least another few days. Your collarbone was snapped in two places, and - "

"I understand. I'm an ex-marine, young man." He said with slow, cool assurance. "I'm used to hurting. I'm asking when you would let us check out without sending in the nurses to restrain us."

"Well...I mean, I suppose if you were desperate to leave, you could do so tomorrow morning. Your collar bone has been set, but-..." He shook his head. "I just don't know. Your friend Mr. Glover, here, has lost a lot of blood..." The doctor looked over to Dean, who had a fluids drip as well as a blood bag, one IV in his hand, the other in the inside of his elbow. "We've replaced a significant amount of the blood lost..." He said, managing to get over his surprise and shift back into doctor mode, lifting up Dean's chart and looking over it. "I suppose in the theoretical sense your body should be able to replace the rest itself," he said, addressing Dean.

"Good," John said, responding for his son.

This was what it had been like before Sam came back into Dean's life. John making the calls, Dean keeping his mouth shut. _Sir, yes, sir_. Dean nodded along with the conversation, but that was the extent of his involvement. It sounded good so far. Maybe nobody had dug too deep, yet. A part of him felt okay about letting John make the calls. He was tired, he was beat, and it was a complicated situation... Maybe not wanting to leave Sam behind was a little irrational.

John didn't expect his son to say anything, so he didn't blink an eye when Dean stayed silent. He paused, worried about using the wrong name, but his concern for his youngest son overrode that particular worry.

"There was another person in the car. Sam Winchester. Roger told me he was brought here as well."

"Yes." The doctor nodded. "However, he isn't my patient. As I understand it, the most serious injury is his ribs and the organ damage underneath, from his impact with the steering wheel. I know he had to be intubated - he wasn't breathing when the paramedics arrived at the site. There is significant damage to the trachea. Despite the bizarre circumstances, it looked as if he was strangled - given the condition of the driver of the truck, we can only suspect that he had something to do with that. The police suspect some kind of drug-related incident." He held the clip board in front of himself, taking a deep breath.

"When can we see him?" John asked in his normal flat and firm tone, one that booked no argument. 

"He's stable, as I understand it. He can be visited at any time, now."

Dean waited until the doctor had left the room to slip his IV out of his arm. He pressed his thumb against the vein. "I'm gonna go see Sam." He wanted to see him once, at least, before they split. He was feeling pretty good, all things considered. Good enough to be on his feet right now, anyway. He'd have a lot of chance for bed rest somewhere safer, with rocksalt across the windows and doors.

John glanced over at him, then nodded. "Be careful." He glanced around. "Do you have my journal?"

Dean inclined his hospital bed to an upright position. He grimaced as he sat up, hearing joints pop and crack as they shifted into gear. He shook his head. "No. It's probably under the car seat, or something. We better clean the car out first thing tomorrow."

"First thing." John said with a stern nod. "Take it slow, alright?"

Dean responded with a nod. He took a minute to put up his bedpan and hang up his IV so it looked like the doctor had had someone let him out. And that was good, because while he was pulling his boxerbriefs on, Rachel Schiffer came in. Dean put on a winning grin, wagging his finger towards her, stealing the conversation starter. "Hey there, it's... Rachel, right?"

The brunette stopped up in surprise and walked over to check his chart. "Mr. Glover, I didn't know someone else had been in..."

"Roger. Yeah, I was gonna go see my cousin. Doctor sent a nurse in to help me get up but she got a page a minute ago. Forgot to mark the chart." Dean shrugged, straightening out his hospital robe. Rachel was very high on the list right now. She'd given him a sponge bath when he was ~~less~~ out ~~than he pretended to be~~.

Rachel watched him sidelong as she went to check John's chart. (Oh yeeeah, points for the skimpy robe thing. Too bad he put underwear on.) She flashed John a smile before scribbling something on the chart.

"Hey. You think you could do me a favor? Sounds like my cousin's gonna be out awhile and we'd like to get the stuff out of his car." Dean looked 'grim.' "I've heard of people getting robbed... Just not sure where they impound cars around here."

"Oh! Sure. I had my car towed last year." Rachel struck an 'embarrassed' look. She wasn't paying much attention to John at all. "I can probably Mapquest it for you or something..."

"Thanks." Dean threw a wink. "That'd be great."

John paid her as little attention, having found a notebook in the drawer of the table beside his bed, and, acquiring a pen, had begun scribbling away in it. Dean was doing what he had to do, as was right, and John was making his notes. The things he could remember, the things he couldn't remember, because if you didn't write them down they got garbled. Memory faded with time. He would have to use these notes to do his research.

Dean excused himself from the hospital room. _Rachel Schiffer_. At least he wasn't gonna be lonely waiting around for Sam to wake up. It wasn't hard to find the room his brother had been assigned to. He let himself in.

It was a ward as opposed to a private room, like the one in the Extended Recovery wing that he and John had. There were beds on either wall, some occupied and some not. Most of them appeared to be asleep, though one man at the end of a row was reading a book. 

Sam's long body barely fit into the bed, his head propped up on a pillow. His eyes were shut, and he was still intubated, the tubing taped around the edges of his mouth.

Dean gave a nod to the man at the end of the row, who'd looked up at him, and found a stool to pull over. He dragged himself up on it, watching Sam's breath fog the tube. It hurt. It hurt to see his brother injured that bad. He wondered what he'd been doing, if he let Sam get that way. He couldn't remember much of it, now--flashes of action, headlights white on a wrinkled, black-eyed face in the dark of night.

"Close one, hunh?"

Hit by a truck. After everything else, something so mundane had put the Winchesters in the hospital.

Sam remained still. He was hooked up to a monitor that checked his vitals every now and again, and did so silently. He had the same IVs that Dean'd had, though he had no blood bag.

"Can I help you?" A nurse said, leaning over just slightly, her dark hair falling over her shoulder, peering at Dean with a look of curiosity that refrained from suspicion until she found out his identity.

Dean glanced over at her. Normally he was a big fan of nurses: the uniforms, high heel shoes, little hats-- and real nurses that weren't from pornos, too. Just... wasn't exactly the time.

"M'cousin. They said I could come see him." He gestured vaguely to illustrate the hypothetical 'they.' "Do I need to come back later, Miss...?" He scanned for her nametag.

She straightened and smiled once she realized who he was, and shook her head.

"Esperanza, and no, no. You're welcome to stay. Since you're staying here too, there's not really a policy with regards to visiting hours." She glanced at the bed. "He's being moved, tomorrow."

"Out of ICU? That's good news." Dean even smiled, a tired, grateful kind of smile. That's how good a news it was. Or his libido was revving up. ‘Old habits,’ and all.

She paused and shifted. "...oh, I'm sorry, I...Mr. Winchester, is it?" She assumed from glancing at Sam's chart. "I thought they'd told you. He's being moved to the Observation Ward, there's nothing more we can do here. He's in a comatose state."

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in.

"Mr. Glover," Dean corrected numbly. His interest in nurse winked out like a dead ember. He searched Sam's face. Coma. That put them stationary for god knew how long. It wasn't that he was more afraid for Sam's life, not right yet, because he had a stubborn belief in the perseverance of his family members... but it was a dangerous situation in the long term. The Winchesters survived by staying on the move. 

"Mr. Glover, excuse me." She nodded slightly, pausing, then explaining to him as she was trained to do. "We estimate that when the paramedics arrived on the scene he had been without oxygen for five or six minutes. It appears someone choked him...I believe that the police need to talk to you and your friend." She wet her lips. "He could wake up any time, but the longer it lasts, well..."

"Yeah. I know how it works."

Dean had watched daytime television. People went into comas all the time.

When the stillness of Sam's body had spent its impact, Dean realized he'd been a little short with Miss Esperanza. "Sorry. Just... wasn't expecting that." He chuckled, a smile on his lips that passed quickly: "His brother died a few months ago. Dad's always somewhere else. It's pretty much me and him, you know?"

Dean wanted her to know, because he wanted to make sure Miss Esperanza kept a close personal eye on his brother when he might otherwise be left alone in some long-term care unit.

"No, it's alright...No one ever expects anything like that." She took a deep breath and settled back on her heels. "You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like." She put Sam's chart down, moving back towards the door. "If you need anything, the nurses’ station is right outside."

"Thanks."

A coma. It felt even more like a personal failure on his part. When Nurse Esperanza left he slid his hand over the back of Sam's, let it rest there, quiet and as intimate as he got. If they'd been alone somewhere, not in a crowded hospital unit, he might have done something more sentimental (maybe a lot more sentimental), but they were, and people who weren't Sam _weren't_ passed out, and that wasn't happening. Not right now. 

Dean looked at Sam real hard, like just that could draw him out... He'd have to tell John. He wasn’t sure where his dad would make the call.

\----

_Sam was warm and still, and in his head, Latin words scratched into the insides of his skull. He had some sense that Dean was near him, but it wasn't doing him any good, not without the journal._

_He could feel someone sitting on his chest, and god did it hurt._

\----

On the outside, the ward was somewhat cool with recirculated air, and the faint buzz of voices on speakers, and there was little more to it than that.

Dean sat with him awhile. He wasn't the best at this kind of situation where any one-sided conversation would reveal deep emotional vulnerabilities. He didn't really want that guy reading nearby to know he had that kind of thing going on inside him. Dean was manly. He drank beer, had a lot of guns, and could kill a zombie with his bare hands. He wanted to carry Sam off and curl up together, like he used to, in that familiar, comfortable nearness; hole up with him, like some mother wolverine, and take care of him until he woke up. _That_ wasn't very manly, and he wasn't very comfortable with that kind of desire--except that wolverine part--but it compelled him on an instinctive kind of level, on the level where he'd do anything and kill anyone for Sam or for John. 

Dean sat with Sam until he was hungry, and he had to take a piss, and he was a little lightheaded because he wasn't 100% for sitting upright for long periods of time. When all that caught up with him, he went to find the bathroom, and some food, because he had to be in shape if a fight found him.

\----

_Jessica sat down like she were perched on the edge of a river. She watched Sam's movements, the way he tore through the dirt. She would have helped him, god she would have done anything to help him, but he couldn't even see her. What good could she do?_

_Her hands grazed the stone and she thought about that day in the caf, sitting with her friends, barely noticing the insanely tall boy who was too buried in books to notice anything. Long limbs, something of that gangly puppy syndrome, and clothes that were so hand-me-down that in the end he didn't look like anything impressive at all._

_He looked different now, but there was nothing she could do about that. She bit nails that didn't exist and watched a dream world pass by._

\----

Dean went back to John, eventually, and he told him the news. Even if he'd rather have stayed beside Sam, he was otherwise ready to get moving again, to get his hands into something he could affect. Short periods of slouching around and looking good were fine, but long periods of inactivity weren't Dean's style. He had an itchy feeling on the back of his neck and in the back of his mind.

John looked up at his eldest when he came back in, listening to his news. He took a deep breath, leaning his head down, putting a hand to his forehead. It was difficult to be both a father and a drill sergeant. He had to weigh all the options and judge what was the best thing to do, but the best thing to do would end up losing him a son, and he couldn't do that. 

He took a deep breath and raised his head.

"I'm getting out of here now. I'll get to the car and get everything, find a motel and check in. I want you to stay here with your brother for the time being. If he wakes up, you'll have to get him out of here. Once everything is settled, I'll call for you, and we'll move from there."

Dean had to run the words by himself twice. The part of him that had been looking forward to digging around a junkyard shut up pretty quick in face of the part of him that hadn't excepted John to let him stay with Sam. He wasn't sure if _Thanks, dad_ was exactly the right response to give his drill sergeant, because he was sure John had less than compassionate reasons for wanting him to stick around. It was a pretty good rule of thumb that John acted from less than compassionate reasons four out of five decisions. 

"Yes'sir," he said, instead.

John loved both his boys dearly, but he knew he couldn't allow something like that to effect his decisions too deeply. That would just get them killed. He shifted in his bed, turning to the side with a slight grunt of pain, getting to his feet, feeling some of his bones crack and pop - he was getting too old for this kind of crap. He yanked the IV out of his hand, the other in a sling to keep him from shifting his newly acquired broken collar bone.

He nodded to Dean.

"Take care." He paused. "If anything comes...You gotta remember that you can't just carry Sammy out of here. You put yourself first, you understand? He doesn't have a chance in hell if you get taken down for being stubborn." He gave his final warning, moving cautiously towards the door.

Dean didn't say anything to that for a minute. He got it. He understood the words. It just wasn't something he could necessarily agree to. Not in whole, anyway. If he left, it'd be because it was better for Sam -- not because he'd put himself first. He climbed back into his own hospital bed as John headed for the door, tugging the covers up over him. Conflict passed over his features. He spoke after a few seconds' second thoughts.

"You call me if you need me. If y' get over your head."

Yeah. There was about as a good a chance of John doing that as Dean not carrying Sam out. Dean grinned, because he knew it.

John half quirked one side of his mouth up. "Yeah. I'll do that, son." He responded, and then was out the door, shifting his injured gait into a perfectly even walk, as if he hadn't been shot in the leg just the other day.

Any time John left, Dean got the feeling he might not see him again for a long time. This time, he had good reason to believe otherwise, and he shook it off and picked up the television remote and flipped channels for awhile. He kind of wanted his blood bag back, seeing as he wasn't feeling one-hundred percent. He let Rachel Schiffer hook his IV back up when she came in to check on them. It was a good enough reason to buy more hospital time. He made up something about John's leaving and took the Mapquest printout from her and thanked her and got her phone number, in case he had any further questions. He wanted to go see Sam again, but dragging his IV rack around would be a pain. He figured it'd be better to mend up in case a fight came his way. Later on, after a couple of hours of original series Star Trek reruns he could deliver the lines along with on Spike TV, he ended up falling asleep.

\----

_The harsh light of the truck's headlights illuminated the space in front of Dean, and there was no Impala to block it. It lit up the scrub brush and dry dirt of the field and cast wild shadows about the area._

Sam was laying in the red dirt, his head arched back. There was something, some kind of shadow on his chest, and it had dark hands clasped around the youngest Winchester's throat. 

Dean was going to shoot it. He thought he was going to shoot it at first but his hands closed on empty air. He patted himself down, looking for a pistol, or a dagger, or something, and there was nothing. He gritted his teeth and tried for kicking the shadow where he thought its stomach should be.

It didn't fall over - in fact, Dean's foot impacted nothing at all, just air, but the air seemed to push the shadow away, causing it to dissipate into the darkness surrounding them outside of the truck's light.

Sam gasped for breath, arching his back a bit to relieve the pressure on his chest.

Dean dropped down on his knees beside him. He lifted him up and got a leg behind him he could rest on and held the back of his head to steady him saying, "Sam. Sammy. It's okay. You're good."

Dean couldn't place where he was, or how he'd gotten there. He had a vague, implacable sense of déjà vu. In the logic of dreamtime, he was concerned with the present.

Sam leaned back against Dean's knee, and his eyes stayed shut. He'd had some strange sense that Dean was nearby, but it felt like that for the past few years he just hadn't been _there_ , right there, next to him. 

He opened his eyes and looked up at Dean, saw his brother's face, not distorted and perverted like everything else in this god forsaken field, but real and just as it should have been.

_In nomine Dei..._

He sat up, heaving in one great gasp of air, lifting a hand to his chest, the pressure still deep and heavy there, as if the shadow had never left. He looked back at Dean.

"I need the journal, I can't finish without..." He looked around suddenly, at the darkness, just barely able to make out the horizon line by a faint red glow, as if dawn were coming, but he was sure it was a long way off.

Dean's hand reached out after Sam, halfway, reflexively, as Sam sat up, then his fingers curled and he let him go. He studied Sam seriously, assessing if he was still under threat.

"It's in the car."

Dean knew that, at least, was true.

Sam looked back at his brother, shifting his feet underneath him, legs shaking somewhat. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying for a moment - god, his chest - then steadied himself. He moved a few steps over. 

"The car?" He looked around. Where was the car? He moved to the bookshelf, looking desperately through books with titles like ' _Interpretations of the Law_ ' ' _Ethics of the Courtroom_ ', and ' _How to leave behind a life of demon hunting_ '. He made a sound of frustration. "None of these are any good. None of these'll help." He thunked his head against one of the shelves, resting there, his eyes shut.

Dean pushed himself up behind him and scanned over the shelf himself. _Journal, journal_... He stopped at ' _How to leave behind a life of demon hunting_ ', paused, and pulled it off the shelf to look at the dust jacket.

"You read this crap?"

Dean tossed the book to the side took it upon himself to start trimming the collection of books. 

"Only when it's raining," Sam said. A second later the heavens opened, and outside the small motel room, they could hear the water hitting the pavement. 

Sam paused and stopped his search, staring out the window soundlessly. 

Dean followed his gaze for a minute, looked down at the strip of six foil-wrapped condoms in his hand, and tossed those aside, too.

He walked over to the mini-fridge and started looking for a beer.

Sam walked slowly towards the windows, looking out at the torrential rain that was pouring down on to the poorly lit parking lot. Beyond the yellow street lights, there was nothing but darkness. 

The world looked so small.

Jessica watched him from outside the window, but his eyes slid over her like water.

"God...." Sam grasped the shirt over his chest, bunching his fingers in it to make a fist. It felt like someone was dropping brick after brick down on to him.

"You know what you need?" Dean asked as he picked up a shotgun out of the fridge. He walked over to the bed and sat himself down, opened the gun up and picked up a dowel off the bed to start cleaning it. "You need..."

He never finished the sentence because the dowel got stuck in the shotgun and when he finally tugged it out and peered down the barrel a pair of beady little rat eyes were staring back out at him and he sat there transfixed in disgust and afraid to move (because the dirty little bugger would jump out on him), a shudder running up his spine.

"Need?" Sam turned, looking back at him. "I need..."

Sam tried to think, tried to get his mind to wrap around the concept that seemed to keep slipping away from him.

"Dei...sancti...No." He shook his head. "I need the journal. That's what I need; I need to find the journal..." He walked across the room and into the library. It was dusty and piles of books lay on every table, clearly the library staff hadn't been taking good care of the place.

Probably because they were all skeletons on the vaulted ceiling.

The rat jumped. Dean made an un-manly sound and fell out of the library chair. The rat went digging into the pile on the table behind him, its bald tail lashing around as it wiggled in between two books. Dean watched it, his lip twitching up in revulsion. He shook it off and picked himself up. He looked around the library, at all the books, at the skeletons.

"That's right. You need the journal. Whatta you go diggin' around in all this other stuff for?"

"I don't know. I mean..." His hand brushed down the dusty spine of an old, large book. "I thought I wanted it."

He walked through the long, tall isles of books, rats on the tops of the shelves, peering down at them.

He looked back at Dean. "Sometimes it feels good, you know?"

Dean was hanging pretty close to Sam's back and pretending like he was cool with shit while keeping an eye on the rats. _God damn_ \--with their little bug eyes, and their little overbites, and their filthy, tiny hands... 

He flashed Sam a grin and waggled his eyebrows. "Anytime you wanna feel good, you let me hook you up."

Sam stopped walking, and looked back at his brother.

"I want to feel good." He asked, the pain he felt digging its claws in. "Please?"

Whenever Sam got that look about him--that needy, pleading look--it got Dean down in the stomach. Always had. It made it hard not to give him what he wanted. Or maybe a request like that got him a little bellow the stomach, in that primal brain that did most of the thinking for him most of the time. It was the same conclusion as always, though: _Not here. Not now. Not Sam._

Dean threw a precursory glance around the library, grinned, and gave Sam a conspiratorial wink.

"Not exactly the right scene."

Sam sank down to his knees slowly, his back hunched over and he looked at his knees and the floor. 

"You, too?" He asked quietly, no beginning to that statement that could possibly give away its meaning. The momentary hope fled him, the hope that his brother could do something to make it better. 

The rats began to chew into a book entitled ' _1001 reasons I need to stop depending on my brother for everything_.'

Dean frowned, hand on his hip, and tilted to the side a little trying to get a better look at Sam's face.

"What's wrong?"

He crouched down in front of him.

Sam looked up at his brother.

"You can't help me," he said, and the truth of that statement made the rats squeal with delight, and Sam felt like something had just pierced him through his chest. 

He flopped back over, and the hoards of rodents began to descend from the bookshelves, crawling towards Sam, and he felt one crawling up his back, then a million.

_Whoa! Whoa! Rats!_

Dean grimaced a second as the rodents started advancing, his stomach dropping out under him, but he didn't think twice about lunging forward, about trying to knock the things off Sam's back. The two of them were _crawling_ in rats. 

"Sammy! Damn it...!"

His skin cold and crawling, he kept knocking them away. There were just too many.

The little things hissed at Dean as he hit them, rearing back. Eventually the tide of rodents seemed to stem, and they ran away from him, crawling up over the bookshelves, clinging to the edges all the way down, staring at him.

Dan was alone in the dark library.

He was on his hands and knees there on the floor, clammy and panting. He vomited, stomach-hot hospital food splashing on the marble floor, and then he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, standing up and looking around.

"Sam!" 

His voice echoed in the silent chamber.

Jessica looked at him from around the end of the dark shelves, and her blonde hair and white dress seemed to be the only light in the room.

"What you want isn't always what you get," she said, and then Dean woke up.

The first thing Dean thought, before the dream started coming back to him, was that he'd thrown up in his mouth a little and it tasted like crap. He swallowed the bile back, smacking his lips in distaste. When the dream started coming back to him, he pulled the IV out of his arm again and left it dangling. He headed for the ICU to check on Sam.

Nothing had changed. Sam lay on his bed, hooked up to all manner of machines, and he was silent and still. His brow was beaded with sweat though, despite the cold air of the hospital.

Dean had a bad feeling about this. Like Han Solo, in Star Wars, he wasn't all that in with the Force -- not as in as Sam sometimes seemed to be, anyway -- still, he had the instincts for the job he did and his instincts were telling him something was off. He checked Sam's vitals on the monitor and stood there staring at him a little while longer... but what it could be wasn't coming to him.

\----

_Sam knew Dean was gone. The minute he woke up, that shadow on his chest, he knew Dean was gone._

_Somewhere else, he walked through his apartment, and he knew Jessica was gone._

_In a motel room, he held onto the sill of the window, chanting the names of God, and he knew his father was gone._

_The sky stayed dark._

\----

Dean couldn't get back to sleep. He wandered around the hospital a little while, thinking about calling John, deciding a bad dream wasn't anything worth reporting. It'd seemed pretty real, nonetheless. And Jessica, at the end? What was he doing dreaming about Sam's girl? Sure, she was easy on the eyes. Maybe if he'd gotten to know her better she would have snuck into a dream or two, already. But Jessica was dead. Besides when she came up with Sam, Dean didn't much think about her.

\----

_She stood next to Sam's bed, watching her lover and his brother at the same time. Sam could see her, if only he'd wake up, but she couldn't do that for him. His brother couldn't see her, if he was awake, only if he was asleep, but he just kept walking._

_She no longer had a heart with which to love. Her investment in this was not an emotion like that. She couldn't feel that. She could only feel a sense of spiritual love, of a need to fulfill her promises of love and care that she'd made. But spirits don't think like humans do, not in clear lines, not within a sense of time, and she could no longer see the walls that contained Sam and Dean as living creatures, as they had once contained her._

_She had no way of helping. Luckily for her, the sensation of helplessness was also something she could no longer comprehend._

\----

Dean crept back into his room, eventually, sliding back up on the less-than-comfortable bed. He was as tired as before he’d gone to sleep, but he’d gotten some more blood back and started to feel in fighting shape, at least. That was better than nothing. He stared at the ceiling and drummed on his legs and sang out loud to himself, and he watched some television on the little wall-mounted TV, and he eventually ate some breakfast while talking with Rachel Schiffer. It took awhile, but by late morning when he was watching TV again and halfway to bored out of his mind, he ended up dozing off. 

\----

_She was standing there, in front of a door. Everywhere else, there was nothing but snow. But the sky was light. God it was light. There was no wall, no house, just a door, and she seemed to almost glow._

"Dean." She said, recognizing him, and it was the same tone that his mother had had, back in that house that he hated so much. 

Dean looked at her warily, kind of skeptically. He was a little less asleep this time, a little more aware. He looked around him, the snow everywhere, the strange-lit sky. 

"Where are we?"

Hadn't he been somewhere else? Somewhere, just a second ago... He already couldn't remember, and the setting was starting to feel natural.

She paused, because she knew she had to answer the question as clearly as she could, and it was very difficult for spirits to be clear about anything at all. 

"We are where you are. In you." She touched the doorknob. "This...is the space that connects you to him."

Dean chuckled. That sounded pretty out there. (For one thing, Dean was pretty sure he looked like one of those all night adult toyshops on the inside, and neon lights everywhere, advertising beer.) 

"An' why are you here?" A grin. "Not that I mind. Just, if this was _my_ space, _you'd_ be wearin’ less."

"Because I'm not your vision of Jessica." She said assuredly, stepping away from the door. "I _am_ Jessica, and this is the only place I can talk to you." He was definitely getting a dream from the dead here.

"So, what, I've got the Shining, too, now?"

Dean laughed at that idea, but his laughter trailed off. Yeeeah, that wasn't too funny. He couldn't remember where he'd been when he was awake, what he'd been doing, and the details of his life... He could remember other dreams he'd had, though, and the most recent one was still chillingly fresh. 

Jessica shook her head. Dean thought about it a second.

"Look, if this is 'real' then I... I need to get to Sam."

She nodded. "Yes, you do." She moved back to the door.

"You can always get to him. You're the only person who can." She stepped aside, leaving a path to it open for Dean. He was the only one who could open it, of course.

"It's dark in there."

Dean scoffed. "With my line of work? I'm not afraid of the dark." Just rats. And airplanes. ~~And abandonment.~~ And maybe baboons. Man... Something wrong with those monkeys.

He approached the door at his usual swagger, and gripped the knob and turned it without a second thought. If Sam was in there, it didn't matter what was in between them.

She watched him, and then stepped back, saying nothing else, and not hindering his progress from his own mind into Sam's.

The door opened for him without any trouble.

Dean flashed her a smile and nodded his thanks and stepped into the inky darkness without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti._

Sam was lying on a bed, in some old motel, and he was eight. There was a shadow on his chest, pressing down and strangling the boy harshly. He sank into the bed until he couldn't breathe anymore and the ice cracked under him. The shadow became impossibly black water. Dean stood at the edge of the ice field, in the dead of night, seeing only a hole in the ice from a distance.

Dean broke into a jog, and then a run. His feet slid on the ice but his balance was good. He skidded to a halt, letting his legs slip out from under him and landing on his side with a grunt. He rose carefully and walked slowly towards the hole, keeping his body low to the ground to spread out his weight.

The water was freezing cold, and it felt like water, but it was pitch black, and the deeper he reached his arm into it, the thicker and colder it got. 

Then he felt a small hand grasp his, warm in the ice cold liquid.

He hauled back on the hand, pulling Sammy out of the water. He lifted him up into his arms, hugging his dripping wet body close, a hand on the back of his head, the other rubbing him on the back as he tried to warm him up. He glared threateningly at the hole like he expected the shadow to crawl out of it after them. When it was this, when it was Sammy, when Sammy was little... Dean had never had a problem taking care of him like this, then. It was easy to press his cheek against Sammy's hair, to rock him to keep his blood moving and to just be relieved. _Maybe_ Dean would do that kind of thing with Sam. You know; if Sam was passed out.

"You all right, Sammy?" he muttered against his ear, sitting there with him on the ice. 

"Dean?" He asked, and he said it in a tone that made it come out like 'I haven't seen you in so long, where were you?' Sammy wasn't afraid of letting his fingers curl into Dean's clothing and just stay there - no, more than just stay there. Cling there. Need him.

Sammy had always been independent. He had always been stubborn, always known what he wanted, but when he was little, he hadn't had any problem with needing Dean. When he had nightmare, or was sick, or hungry, or upset, or sad, or lonely, Dean was always there with him. 

Now that Sam was older, there were those natural barriers in place that told him he was too old to crawl into his brother's bed, too big to fit in his arms, too grown up to depend on him for everything. Maybe that was why he'd chosen to be this, to be small again. It made it easier to need someone.

Dean's breath sighed out as no shadow came creeping after them and he felt safe to relax, just enough that Sammy might relax. Dean was still ready to kill something, but he didn't want his brother picking up on that. 

"Yeah, I'm here."

He'd always been there, back then. Almost always, anyway. He'd slept next to Sam, and cooked them food, did their laundry, picked up Sammy's toys, cleaned up his scrapes and bruises, cleaned up the bathroom when he threw up outside of the sink or the toilet... hell, he'd toilet trained the little bastard. Sometimes he'd hated it, hated a whole lot that he didn't get to be a kid, to go play on his own, to watch the TV program he wanted to watch when Sammy demanded they tune into his own favorite shows... It was hard, being seven and teaching a three year old how to read. But most of the time, Dean had done it. Everything. For years. Sammy had been his job, and his life... Until Sammy grew up, and didn't need him anymore. Dean had picked up full time hunting around the same time Sammy outgrew him. That took the hurt off having a teenager slam the door in your face, because you got to go hurt something else that deserved it more--still, it was hard to go from being somebody's everything to being by himself, alone except for the occasional brush with mortal danger and his dad barking orders.

"I'm right here, Sammy."

This was easy. This was old hat.

The ice began to break slowly.

Sam clung to his brother, breathing in air in what felt like the first time, as if he hadn't breathed in... always. Only when Dean was near could he breathe in this place.

"Dean." The body grew in Dean’s arms. Sam's head rested against his brother's lap, long and lanky and strong. But Sam didn't let go. If he hid his face, he could pretend like it wasn't cold, wasn't dark, and he wasn't too old to need this.

The ice breaking. That could be a problem. 

Dean ruffled Sam's hair, a sentimental gesture; smirking. Yeah, this was Sammy. The same stubborn kid. Dean would still do anything for Sam, if Sam just asked... but Sam didn't ask for much, nowadays. 

"We need to move."

The ice was breaking. Dean didn't want to wait around and find out if that was good or bad.

Sam swallowed and raised his head slowly, looking over at the black hole in the ice. 

"Okay..." He nodded, getting to his feet slowly, trying to keep from slipping.

Dean got up carefully, too, trying not to trip Sam up with the two of them so close together. The first time he'd been here, things had transitioned smoothly the way dreams did. He hadn't noticed it. A little self awareness made a lot of difference. As they moved away from the hole in the ice the danger of falling in the water felt real and immediate.

They walked careful over the ice, moving towards the snowy bank, the frozen water crackling behind them. They scrambled up onto the bank, but Sam gave a cry and fell. The water, now nothing but blackness, had reached up a shadowy arm. It had grabbed Sam’s ankle, and he landed on his stomach, long fingers digging into the snow as it tried to pull him back.

Dean spun around and felt his feet slipping and went with it, skidding down the bank to grab a hold of Sam. He dug his feet into the damp soil and snow at the edge of the water.

_Demons..._

He felt like he was remembering something, but the memory was faint and fleeting.

Sam cleaved to Dean, and they both slid down the embankment. Sam felt the water creep up his feet, to his ankles. He hissed and gasped at the cold, he gripped Dean tightly, even though he knew he should let him go. Even though he knew he was dragging Dean down with him.

_You gotta remember that you can't just carry Sammy out of here. You put yourself first, you understand?_

The words came back to Dean. He remembered them--didn't remember who said them, but he remembered the words. He couldn't do it. Not when Sam needed him. If Sam were dead... 

Dean dug his feet in harder, muttering obscenities at the hand in the dark water. The wet of Sam's clothes chilled him through.

The hand dragged Sam down with preternatural strength; the water was over his waist, sinking through his jacket, rising up his back. Sam’s fingers relaxed. He slowly let go of Dean's wrist, though Dean was resolutely grasping his. 

"It won't let go of me." He said, not meaning 'I can't shake the grasp', but more 'It will keep coming, no matter what we do'.

"If I get the journal, can we kill it?"

Dean wasn't letting go. He didn't like that Sam was trying to. He shook his head, shooting him a warning look. If Sam stopped trying against this thing, he was going to kick Sam’s ass way harder than any demon. ( _Yeah. That's right. This thing’s a demon..._ )

Sam shook his head a little. "I don't...I don't even know what this is..." He began to sink under the water. He looked at Dean with desperation, as if pleading with him for answers. "Dean....? De--" He was cut off as his head disappeared under the water, and Dean, only a little above him, wouldn't be long to follow into the black water. Somehow, when he was cut off, it sounded like when Sam was tiny, still only just learning words and sounds, and he called Dean 'Dee'.

Dean choked up. Losing Sammy like this... He didn't know if Sam'd be okay on the other side or not. (Was he waking up? He couldn't wake up right now. Not now.)

"Sammy!"

The thing was too strong. What would happen if he went under, here? Would he wake up? Would he get stuck here, too, like Sam? His feet were slipping against the loose soil; his knees folded against his chest, the weight of his body on the ground did nothing to slow it. The heels of his shoes were in the water.

He was pulled inevitably closer, until the water rose up over his head, and filled every opening in his head, pouring into him. He was being choked for air; there was an incredible pressure on his chest. It was cold, but that wasn't half as deadly as the rest. 

They weren't floating; they were sinking, deeper and deeper, until it felt like they were sinking through molasses. Dean felt himself sink into his car, into the backseat, and the door was shut and locked. Outside, he could see Sammy in the dirt again, but this time it wasn't a shadow, it was the old trucker sitting on his brother's chest, choking him, and Sam was muttering something in Latin, like a hymn.

But the window of his car was more like a TV set, and all he could do was watch, divorced from the scene.

What'd he been doing, to let Sam get beat up that bad? Had he been passed out somewhere, useless? He couldn't remember anything.

He tried the door handle of the car. He tried forcing a latch up manually. He looked around, trying to find something in the dreamscape he could use. Dean wasn't ready to give up, to give Sammy over to that guy. Before, Sam had said he needed the journal. Had that changed? Was Sam's memory fading in and out like his? Dean wasn't sure. He remembered Jessica, and wondered where she was in all this.

_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..._

The words echoed, over and over again, from Sam's lips, but they did no good. His back arched up off the ground and his eyes rolled back, and the car filled with black water, smothering Dean, choking him, and then Dean was awake, and his lungs had no air.

Dean heaved in a breath that set off a hacking cough. He doubled over on the bed, clutching the railing on the side until his breathing had evened out. He glowered down into space a minute, wet his lips, and climbed out of the bed. He walked over to where the nurses had put his things and dug through them until he found his cell phone, dried blood still smeared across the plastic. He flipped it open and thumbed up the autodial to John's cell, put it up to his ear and shifted his weight to his other foot with the impatience of not knowing if he'd even get an answer.

It rang, which was something. But it just kept ringing. Then, just before Dean was sure that the message would cut in, John's voice came across the line, gruff and low.

"Dean?"

It was such a relief Dean didn't even snark at him. He wasn't feeling real snarky right now, anyway.

"Something's wrong with Sam, dad. You got the journal back yet?"

"Yes, I did." John paused. "What do you mean wrong? What's happened?"

"He's still in a coma, but... I think I saw what's keepin' him there. I think the demon may be in there with'em." It was his best guess so far, anyway. "Somethin's goin' on with his ‘Village of the Damned’ crap. Every time I fall asleep, crazy shit starts happening."

John grunted quietly. "What kind of crazy 'shit'?" He had never really approved of his son's swearing. Then again, he had never approved of Dean's promiscuity either. But like with all other things, John didn't overly involve himself. They all had their mechanisms for dealing with their solitary life. "What's been happening to you?"

Dean’s promiscuity was the only arena where John’s approval didn’t factor. Disapproval didn’t slow him down.

Dean paused a minute. He didn't want to make Sam's problem sound stupid. He didn't want John to write it off as a bad dream when Sam's life could be in danger. For all Dean knew, his own life was at risk, too. He felt like he’d been without air for awhile.

"When I go to sleep... It's like I'm dreamin'. I mean, I'm dreaming... but I don't think it's _my_ dream. Sam's there, and this thing, sometimes it's a shadow, sometimes it's the trucker, it's chokin' him over and over and over, and he's sayin' something in Latin at it. Doin' an exorcism. Sometimes he gets away from it. But he's off, distracted. He asked me for the journal. He was lookin' around for it. Said he... Said he needed it to finish." 

Dean massaged his brow. He had a headache behind his eyes. He was tired, too. Nightmares like that weren’t sleeping. Not really. He wasn't even going to mention the part with Jessica. "I'm real tired, dad, and it was a lot more real the last time than th' first." He grinned against the receiver. "I'd _appreciate_ it if you could bring that journal over."

John listened, taking in all his son had to say. He was silent for a long minute, and then finally sighed out: 

"I'll bring the journal. It's the middle of the night now; I may have trouble getting in." Which was why he'd been so slow to answer the phone. It was somewhere in the vicinity of 3AM. "Are you sure this is your brother you're seeing?" he asked, the only time he was going to question Dean.

"Yeah, dad. I'm sure."

It was funny. That part Dean didn't have to think twice about.

Dean had a feeling if he sat down again he'd be dozing off pretty soon. Maybe he'd remember more, this time. Remember enough to wander around that snowfield in front of the door until someone came and woke him up, if that was an option. He wasn't sure how these things worked.

"....alright, then." And that was that. "I'll be there when I can. Stay awake." And then he hung up.

Dean figured that was the best plan. He wanted to see Sam again. He wanted to help him. He hated leaving him in there with that thing, leaving him alone and scared. But now, he had some place to start fighting it from. Had something to try, at least. Going in there, maybe getting stuck, maybe suffocating or something... That wouldn't help anybody. 

The thing was, a hospital was a boring place to try and keep alert. Monochrome. Lots of places to sit. Quiet, even with the TV on. He let himself out of the room and paced the hallway. Even then, occasionally, he felt like he was slipping off on his feet. His dad had done the whole military thing on them, kept them awake for long stretches of time, but Dean’s mind hadn’t been running off anywhere dangerous when he slipped, then.

It happened in one of those stretching, half awake, half asleep moments, wandering the faceless halls. A woman dressed in white was there.

He wasn't fully asleep, so she wasn't clear like before. He was a normal person, with no psychic powers to guide him, and sleep was the only time she could contact him. She was more like a smear across reality.

"Please," she said, her voice faint, like a whisper coming out of the walls, and he would be unable to remember what she said word-for-word when he fully awoke, just the basic meaning. "It is in him. It is in him. It is in him." Over and over she said it, pleading with him.

"I know," he mumbled, trying to shake it off. He couldn't fall asleep. "I can't do anything. Not yet." 

\--when Dean came to, he was in another part of the hospital altogether, in front of two dark vending machines. That was bad. It sure wasn't good, anyway. He checked the coin trays, got down on his hands and knees and looked under the vending machine for change. He was getting his arm stuck in between the machines after the glint of a quarter, kind of in pain and staring incredulously and starting to feel pretty dumb, when a security guard came up and tapped him on the shoulder. Dean straightened himself out and tried to play it off. He accepted the change the guy pressed into his palm with a half-assed smile because _damn_ , the guy'd been watching all that on a _camera_? That was... But the guy suggested he should return to his room and left him when Dean agreed and Dean closed his eyes and breathed about it, squared his jaw, stuck the change in the vending machine and got a Vault. Caffeine? Good idea.

The can clattered and fell in to the bottom of the vending machine for him to take. Just beyond the hall, the nurses moved around their station, or, at least, he could hear them doing so.

When he reached in, his hand grasped the can, pulling it out. He wasn't holding a can though -- a large rat with unnaturally bright eyes stared up at him. Its hands felt like little human fingers. It screeched at him and bit his hand hard before scurrying away.

Dean let out a startled yelp, falling back a few steps and clutching his wounded hand with the other. _With the rats...!!!_ He was breathing through his teeth and checking out the wound when it hit him, a paranoid sensation at first, a few seconds later the realization that he was dreaming. 

"Oh, no. Nuh-unh." He laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, god." It was worse. It was worse the more aware of it he was. Here was the 'pinch yourself and wake up' test and no, his hand hurt, a smarting ache there under his fingers. He tried to remember what Jessica had said in the hallway, but he couldn't. That hadn't really been dreaming, after all... not here or there. And he couldn't remember... He couldn't remember what had gone on since the last time he fell asleep.

The hospital was eerily silent. The noise from the nurses' station had stopped. Then, slowly, faintly, the sound of footsteps. The gait was very slow, but Dean could tell it was headed towards the corner where the hallway it was in met with the corridor he was in. And riding just in front of the phantom sound, a sense of terrible foreboding.

Dean wasn't the type for running. He looked death in the face. Had, literally, looked death in the face. He was that guy who stood there and watched the tsunami coming, not because it didn't occur to him to run, but because he knew how little running would do in the face of that kind of awesome power. He'd already accepted something with that much strength would run him down, someday. Where could he really run, in a shifting, imaginary world? This thing, whatever it was, Dean met it head on, face forward; lowered his hands to his side though his hand was still hurting; lifted his chin a little.

The footsteps came closer, echoing louder. Before it could cross the hallway entrance, a hand grabbed Dean’s wrist and yanked him into the adjacent room. When the door was shut, in the darkness, the lights off, Dean could just make out his brother's form.

Dean glanced back at the doorway and dropped his voice to a whisper.

"What's goin' on?"

"I don't know," Sam murmured, letting go of Dean's wrist. He sounded desperate, at his wit's end. His voice was high and strained. He walked towards a corner, behind a desk. "I don't know. I keep trying to figure out what's going on, try to get away, but everywhere I go it just gets worse, and worse, and _worse and worse and worse and worse_." He sank down to sit on the floor. "Maybe I should just stay here." The walls whispered ' _worse and worse and worse_ '. "It just gets worse the more I go on."

"We're not givin' up yet, man."

In the other dreams, Dean hadn't known they were dreams, so he'd been wearing the usual sort of clothes. This time, he was still in his hospital shift and his boxers. No hope of pulling a weapon out of where one should be. 

Sam laughed. "You're not even Dean. I dunno what place this is, what hell I got sucked into, but you're not him. Just like all the other Deans. I don't believe you." He ducked his head, covering it with his hands. "I don't believe in you."

........

Dean looked down and away, searching his thoughts for something that'd fix this, fix it fast. He just didn't know enough about what'd been going on.

"Sam..." He looked at him, that dim form in the dark. "You're gonna have to get over this real quick, because I think I'm stuck in here this time. I don't know what this thing's been showin' you, but in the lake, on the ice? That was me. In the library? That was me, too. Nothin' else."

"Library?" He stared at him incredulously. He shook his head. "How could I have been in a library? I'm in a hospital." He pushed himself to his feet. "Where's my brother?" He said, but not in a demanding fashion, more like a whine, almost, like he needed his brother but knew he couldn't get to him.

Great. Different memories. Well, he could relate. 

"You're in a hospital. In a coma. This? This isn't real, man. You're dreamin'. And your Whoopi Goldberg powers keep pullin' me in, too." He took a slow step closer.

"I don't understand what you're saying!" Sam threw his hands down, and froze, realizing he'd shouted. There was heavy breathing from outside the door.

Dean stopped in his tracks and looked over at the doorway. He glanced around the room, looking for another exit.

The door handle jiggled, and then the door shook violently. There was a sudden pounding from the outside. Sam sank back into his corner, curling down into his knees, his long legs propped up.

Dean exhaled his frustration and walked over to Sam, stopping a couple of feet short from him -- he didn't want to spook him, especially if some imaginary Dean had beat him up or something. He crouched down, tried to find a way to meet Sam's eyes, speaking slowly.

"I know you think this sounds crazy, but I think you can control this place. Every time we go somewhere else, it's something you do. If you let this thing trap you in a corner, that's it. We're trapped."

He tried to imagine a door. Just in case he was wrong. The rats were obviously his. _It'd be nice if there was a door over there, goin' somewhere wide open._

Sam hissed.

"That's crazy." It was impossible to convince someone who thought they were awake that they were dreaming. 

At that moment the door burst in. When Dean turned to see what came through-- Sam was standing there, his hand still on the door knob.

"Dean?" He looked confused, then quickly turned and shut the door, panting. "Thank god you're here, there's something--... I think something's after me." 

Dean wasn't a psychologist. He didn't have much on his side but the truth. He looked from the Sam at the door back to the corner.

There was no Sam in the corner. Only an empty corner.

Sam swallowed hard, looking out of the small window into the hall way. He backed up and ran into a desk, started, then calmed himself. He took a deep breath and moved to Dean, grabbing his hand. "C'mon." He moved passed the blackboard, to one of the windows, opening it up and slipping out into the bushes.

 _Damn. Sam is kinda_ schitzo _._

Dean sucked it up and followed him out the window. At least they were getting on the move. 

"Did y' see it? The thing chasing you?"

It seemed like Sam had a lot more control than Dean did. Then again, maybe Dean’s problem was he was trying to make things make sense.

Sam looked back at him like he was crazy.

"Those kids you beat up? You don't remember?" Dean's younger brother pulled him through the bushes against the side of the school building, and suddenly Sam was eleven and Dean was fifteen. "They were picking on me, so you beat them up, but then they got some of their friends."

Dean remembered that. _Heh heh heh. Oh, man._ He'd really...

Dean wiped the goofy grin off his face. Nodded. "Right. We should get somewhere safe."

Sam, all of eleven, was a smart boy, having spent the majority of his childhood sitting around in hotels reading books while his brother and father were out hunting. Mostly, that resulted in some impressive Latin and an extensive knowledge of demonology, hauntings, and paranormal phenomena, but he had occasionally managed to sneak home books on geography and math. History was easy -- Dad thought knowing history would help him in hunting anyways.

However, Sam had only started attending any kind of formal education two years ago, and was unaccustomed to being around children his own age. While he was a sharp and mature boy, he had no idea what social norms were, and often had trouble fitting in at all at any school they managed to stop into on their travels across the country. 

But because of that, he still had no problem with moving his hand from grasping the back of Dean's hand, in a tugging motion, to holding hands properly, palms pressed together. It wouldn't be until he was about fourteen, when he got his first crush on a girl, that he would decide he was too old to hold his big brother's hand anymore.

Sam peered around the corner and saw nothing, so they jogged out into the street. The fading street lamps cast little circles of light here and there, but where the light faded out there was nothing but a foggy darkness, as if the world didn’t exist beyond them.

Dean had forgotten the feeling of Sam's warm palm pressed against his own. They had a different kind of solidarity now, the kind where they stood back to back with guns in their hands and trusted the other to cover his half. It had always been an unspoken thing (because Dean refused to talk about that kind of crap), but since they weren't physical like this anymore, it passed unrecognized between them.

It was weird to go back to it. Sam had made it clear that them together again was just a temporary thing, that the divide was what was real and final--that when they were done he'd up and go. Dean wouldn't embrace it, but he still expected it. So, who was this Sam who still clung onto him like a kid?

In the waking world, Sam lamented that Dean couldn't understand that they could live their own lives and still be a part of one another's. Sam had always intended to come back on breaks from school - he had never wanted to leave his family, but his father had shut the door and said ' _don't come back_ '. There was nothing Sam could do after that.

They walked down the long, dark paved street, their hands tightly clasped, and Sam didn't seem to notice it -- in the way one doesn't notice things that one perceives as completely normal and everyday. Their arms swung easily between them, but the little boy who had faced a poltergeist at the age of nine with little more than a blink (when it had gotten away from the two older Winchesters), who had ceased to be afraid of the dark, or much anything else, after he pulled the trigger on his first kill, looked scared. 

"It just keeps going on and on..." He stopped, staring down at the endless street. There was no horizon line - the earth didn't curve. It just went on, flat and straight, finally fading into some grey haze where the eye could no longer distinguish the identical white houses. Sam looked at the street with an inescapable dread, like he didn't want to be there, but he had given in. He couldn't get out.

"On and on and on..."

Dean shrugged his skinny, fifteen year old shoulders. 

"So what?"

Dean had started working out by then, but he hadn't really filled out until later, too busy putting on vertical inches. He'd been gangly for about a year and had growing pains in his ankles and elbows. Dean hadn't been the one to shoot up like a weed, though. That'd been Sam a few years later. Dean smirked at his brother (though he gave his hand a subtle squeeze).

"I thought you outgrew that 'fear of the dark' stuff."

Sam looked back at him, and looked haunted.

"This dark is different."

The shadows began to move around them, and from inside the houses they could hear screams in some, sounds of fighting in others, and terrible, hysterical laughter in others.

"No. It's not. There's always stuff out there in the dark." Dean peered off through the unnatural night, towards the windows of those houses. "...just closer sometimes than others." 

He looked down at Sam, real stern. "Gonna make me carry you, short stuff?"

The shadows stretched over the asphalt, towards them.

"Like a baby?" Sam asked, with no intonation whatsoever, which made the question sound surreal and out of place. They began to sink slowly, their feet stuck in tar as the shadows slid underneath them.

Dean scowled down at his feet, at the encroaching darkness. The last time they'd sunk, he'd let Sam get pulled down, and they'd got split apart.

"Won't be the first time," he grumbled, and, with a challenging glare towards the shadows, turned and tried hauling Sammy up on his shoulder.

Sam was limp and allowed him to do so. Once settled in Dean's arms they were twenty-two and twenty-six again, and Sam's calves were coated in pitch. The younger of the two seemed compliant to let himself sink into the darkness -- he'd fought it before. It never made any difference.

Dean winced under the unexpected weight in his arms. 

Nothing made sense here. He felt more helpless than he had when he had no idea what was going on. He _was_ more helpless than he had been when he had no idea what was going on.

He struggled to trudge out of the tar, feeling his feet sink deeper with every step. He looked around, eyes wild, determined to get out of the tar and beat somebody's ass down. (Force was Dean's favorite solution when negotiations failed.)

"Jess! I could really use your help about now."

She stood on the side walk.

"I'm dead. I can't help him." She held her hands out helplessly. "The only help I can give is to bring you here." She was a spirit, without a psyche to control the motion of the dream. "He refuses to see me." Where she stood, there was light, the only, last source of light.

"Remember, it is in _him_."

Dean looked at his brother, slung over his shoulder. He was breathing heavily, through his nose, up to his thighs in tar. If the thing was in Sam, what could he do about it? He didn't know how to fight that kind of thing except with an exorcism. Worse, he couldn't seem to get through to Sam. He felt cut off from him, somehow, this whole time. Even when Sam clung to him, Sam'd already given up inside, and slipped off again. Dean felt like he was alone in this, the kind of feeling he hated.

"If you give me to it, it'll let you go," Sam said quietly, as a final peace offering. It's not like it would stop. It was hard to keep from giving up when everything just kept going on, and getting darker, and you couldn't get out. It never stopped, not even when Dean was awake.

Dean busted up at that one: chuckling incredulously, a little offended. He shot Sam a skeptical look over his shoulder.

"Like _hell_ I will."

Someone had told him to let go... Someone important... Clearly, someone who didn't know him. (Or knew him too well.)

He shook his head and made a face to himself. Sam was crazy if he thought Dean was going to sit back and let some demon eat him alive. He patted Sam on the back, firmly -- seeing as that was where he was holding on to him.

"You're emo, you know that? Oughta shave your head and grow a beard." 

"It's not about that," Sam said, feeling odd slung over Dean's shoulder. "It's not about you." 

Sam tried to shift, pulling himself around to Dean's front, letting himself fall in the tar up to his waist, next to Dean as they sank. His hands cupped either side of his brother's jaw, looking at him.

"I just have to leave."

Dean grasped Sam's wrist, fingers digging in to the sleeve of his shirt. He looked him in the eyes right back.

"Why're you givin' up on me, Sam?"

"Because, this time, you can't save me." He said, and he said it with such grief, as if he never wanted such a time to ever arrive.

Dean’s fingers dug in a little tighter. It didn't matter what Sam wanted. If Sam died, Dean had nothing, anyway. Dad? Like he'd ever really had him. Not since he was four. Worked for him, sure. Cassie? She wouldn't wait for him. No, he could only hope, not count on that. The numbers of a hundred one-night stands in his cell phone memory book? Yeah. Great.

If Sam was going' down, Dean figured he might as well fight him till the last.

"How about you? You so sure you can't save you?"

"I tried...!" Sam shook his head as they sunk deeper, but his eyes never left Dean's. "I tried, every time..." He leaned in as the tar came up to their elbows, his forehead resting against his brother's, his eyes shut. "Every time. But I can't get out. I can't find the way out..."

Dean rested his forehead against Sam's, sighing quietly through his nose and trying to think. It was a dream, right? But he could feel Sam's breath on his skin. He could smell him, sweaty, and smell the tar. It was pretty damn real, now. It wasn't like before when he was just going along... He believed it. Guessed that'd be what got him. It wasn't the worst way to go: suffocation. He'd always sort of imagined his fate would be gorier. Didn't mean he was giving up, though. Nah. Not yet.

Huh.

"Why're you tryin' to get out? _It's_ the one that doesn't belong here." He laughed softly in the warm air between them. "Come on, little brother. You gonna let it walk all over ya?"

"Dean," Sam said quietly, realizing what his brother thought. His eyes opened slowly. "There's nothing else here." His hand shifted over his brother's rough cheek, and his breath became shorter and faster as the tar rose up around their chests, restricting their breathing.

Sam shut his eyes again, his expression pained. "Just me and the dark." 

He smiled a little, palely. "But this is probably the best version of my brother this place had given me..."

Dean stared at him.

It sunk in slowly. There was no demon? This... this was just Sam? Then all this stuff... ...and hey... _what_ did he say? 

His lip twitched up and he gawked at Sam like Sam was crazy, with offense written clear on his face, pulling Sam's hand away from his cheek. _Exactly what Dean was he playing second tier to, here?_

"What the hell's _that_ supposed to mean? It's me, geekboy! I _am_ your brother. Jeez... I can't _believe_ I'm gonna die in here." He blew out a lot of angry air and rolled his eyes, dropping his head forward on Sam's shoulder, his hand sliding around to grasp the back of Sam's head. He talked fiercely against Sam’s ear, feeling a familiar heat behind his eyes threatening tears he wouldn't let himself shed. "I've been sittin' here thinkin': oh, hey, I remember Sammy, we used to be so close... but I just remembered somethin' else. You were _always_ one selfish little dick. Just you and the dark? You gotta be kiddin' me. I'm right here."

Sam felt Dean seize him, hold him, and he listened to him talk. Sam's eyes widened a little, and he drew his head back just enough so that their eyes could meet.

"Dean...?" He said, as the tar began to cover their chins, and he looked incredulous, suddenly realizing that it was his brother here with him.

There was a frown in Dean's brow and his jaw was tight and his eyes were red in that way he got when he Wasn't Going to Cry. Man, he was _angry_ through. This was all just Sam? Sam giving up on himself? Who the hell gave him the right to do that? Like Dean didn't just want to pack it in sometimes. Sometimes, Dean didn't want to do laundry. Sometimes, he didn't want to cook what Sammy wanted to eat. Sometimes, he wanted to watch what he wanted to watch on the goddamn television. Sometimes, he woke up at night to hear Sammy whining ' _Deeeean_ ,' in the next bed in the voice that meant he was going to puke all over something, or had a fever, or diarrhea, and Dean thought 'I'd really like another helping of _sleep_ right now'... 

Yeah. Dean remembered Sammy. Did that kid ever _not_ get his way, and _right_ when he wanted it? It was no new development of four years apart.

Dean shook his head and closed his eyes, forcing down the anger and the tears. _Not this time._ He looked at Sam and let him know, it, too, staring him down, his fingers still clutching Sam's hair. There would be no caving. There would be no forgiveness. He didn't want to even _see_ the puppy dog eyes. If he was dying for Sam, he wasn't suffocating in tar just being pushed over again. His voice was shaky with unspent emotion. The tar tasted dirty and sour on his lower lip.

"Do I ever ask you for anything? Just. wake. up."

"I don't know _how_..." God, Sam wanted to. He wanted to so badly. It wasn't a demon, but it wasn't Sam giving up either. It was a coma. The nature of a coma, and the dreams that plagued him where he couldn't figure which way was up, let alone which way was out. "Dean, I'm _so sorry_..." Dean didn't deserve to die for this. Sam didn't know what to do; he didn't know what he _could_ do. He tried to hold his brother's head up with his hands.

But there was nothing they could do. The tar slipped over their heads and into their lungs and they were sinking, down, down, ever downwards, but this time clinging to one another. 

When the tar faded, Sam didn't know. He just knew that he was lying on nothing, in darkness, with Dean next to him. There was no light, nothing at all; just endless black, but they could see one another. 

Sam pushed himself up to sit, looking around at the nothing, entranced by it, one arm still under Dean's head.

Dean sucked in a deep breath when he could suddenly breathe easy, feeling his frustration fade from him. He smiled and closed his eyes again for a minute, now that the mortal peril had passed. He let his fingers slip down as Sam moved, his touch lingering against Sam’s shirt.

It wasn't bad. It wasn't bad at all, just lying in this empty place with Sam beside him, Sam's arm behind him. Then again, the alternative was pretty harsh.

"Close enough."

"...I'm asleep, aren't I?" Sam said slowly. This place felt... more real. There were no dreams to play with their heads. Everything was suddenly as clear as being awake, and Sam suddenly knew: "I'm asleep and I can't wake up." He looked over and down at Dean. "Aren't I?"

"Sounds about right. I... I can't remember much, from when I was awake. Every time I fall asleep, I end up here."

Sam kept looking down at his brother, shifting to lie down again, on his side, facing Dean. "...I don't know how to wake up." He paused, looking down and away, then back. "Can you forgive me?" It was a little like Sam, a little not. Perhaps in here, in Sam's head, it was a little more difficult to keep the real from coming out.

Dean studied him with half a smirk dangling on his lips. He cuffed him on the shoulder. "Not your fault, right?"

Now, the emo bullshit. That was Sam's fault.

It was cool. Dean was over it.

Sam relaxed, smiling a little. "Good..." He shifted back after the cuff cause his shoulder to roll back. He was quiet for awhile after that, because there was little else to do here, in this place in between. There was a door near them, the same exact door that Jess had showed Dean the last time he'd done this.

Dean looked over at the door. He didn't want to leave Sam. Not for a minute, just in case, but... He had the vague memory that things weren't exactly safe wherever he really was. He wondered, vaguely, if Sam could get through that door... If it went into his own head, he wasn't sure he wanted him to. God knew the kind of stuff he thought... and only God.

"You okay, now?"

Sam let out a breath, his eyes closing only for a minute as he breathed in, then open again when he let the breath out. 

"...yeah, I think so." He paused. "It'll come back...but...so will you, right?" He asked, and then he seemed to hang on whatever Dean's reply might be. "You're going to come back here, every so often, right?"

Dean flashed a grin. "Often as I can. I gotta sleep for real, sometimes."

Sam hadn't run him this ragged since Sam was three. Dean was asleep right now, and he _felt tired_. That wasn't the most reassuring thing to say, though. He held up his hand, swearing:

"Not gonna leave you to this."

Maybe it was an inappropriate emotion, but it felt pretty good... being needed, again. The more isolated he'd become, the more he tried to forget that kind of feeling. Dean wanted... Well, it didn't matter, did it? At least Sam was doing alright, now.

"Thanks." His little brother smiled a little. He shut his eyes again, and just lay there, unmoving, resting for what felt like the first time in forever.

There was a rasping noise, like something slithering over stone, and it echoed in the distance, somewhere around them. Sam opened his eyes, raising his head.

"You should go," he said. Then, before Dean accused him of being emo again, he looked down at him and added. "For now."

Dean looked at him a couple of seconds, and inscrutable kind of look that was a lot of things. Then he pushed himself up on his hands, cracked his neck, and got to his feet, looking off into the darkness. Turning to Sam again, he smiled, saying, "Later, man."

He headed for the doorway. Huh. Had he been on his feet when he fell asleep this time...? (Dean was starting to wake up.)

Sam watched him go. In a second the nightmare would begin again, and he'd be lost to it, unable to hold on to reality long enough to understand that he was dreaming. But he wasn't too frightened -- Dean would be coming back, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean woke up in his bed in the hospital.

"He's coming around," someone said, coming up to the left side of his bed. On the right, Dean could make out his father.

_Yeah. That's right. I called Dad._ Normally that'd be good, but now Dean would have to explain things, and time spent explaining things was time spent not sleeping. Dean was bone tired.

"What time is it?" he mumbled, closing his eyes against the light. His eyes were adjusted from it being on above him for awhile, but he wanted to ignore it.

John took a deep breath and stepped back, letting the doctor move in. The man shone a light in each of Dean's eyes, holding them open to watch the pupils. He then moved his hand around, watching as Dean watched his finger.

"Do you know who the president it?" The doctor asked.

"What? George Bush?"

Light in the eyes was _not good_. Even worse, in fact than light-on-the-ceiling.

Dean was starting to get the idea he might have been walking around or something after all, though.

The doctor leaned back. "He seems to be alright..." he said, addressing John as if Dean were just a lab rat, though after that he turned to talk to Dean again. "Do you have any idea what happened to you?"

John grunted and finally intervened. 

"Son, you've been asleep for three days. They said you were in a coma, like Sammy." John looked a little worn around the edges, like he hadn't been sleeping much recently. "They said you went up to check on your brother, seemed fine, then. You called me, but when I got here, you were asleep and wouldn't wake up."

The doctor looked anxious to ask Dean his questions. They had no idea why a perfectly (well, almost perfectly, there were all the injuries from the car, but no head trauma, so in that department, healthy and fine) healthy young man would randomly lapse into a coma.

"...sorry, doc, I... I don't really remember much of what happened."

Dean could remember a lot of things about what had happened in Sam's head, but he wanted a minute to cement those facts in his waking mind and this doctor was getting in the way. Three days? Had it really been that long?

Dean put on his best 'concerned' fact and looked 'distraught' at the doctor.

John caught it easily, nodding to the doctor. "He can talk to you later. He needs some rest and quiet now." John had a way about him that made people, even people in charge, listen to him. After a moment's pause, the doctor left the room, the nurse following him.

John looked back at his son with the 'explain. now' look.

Dean held a hand up in a mercy plea and closed his eyes. After a minute's breathing, and when he felt himself slipping off again, he winced his way back to awake. He really did want that rest and quiet.

"Okay. I was... with Sam again. Didn't really feel like three days. Turns out he's not possessed by a demon or anything. We're good there."

John was a much harder driver than any doctor. He was worried for his son, of course -- hell, he'd been damn near frantic for the last couple of days, both of his boys unresponsive and him knowing danger was coming in any time -- but he needed to know things, before Dean went back to being unconscious again: so he could take steps.

"Oh? There's no demon? Then how are you getting in his head?" He paused and frowned deeply. "Is this his...abilities?" They didn't use the 'p' word.

"Yeah. He's... pretty freaked out, not bein' able to wake up. Guess he pulled me into it."

Dean wasn't too sure how that kind of thing worked. It wasn't like he knew a lot of other psychics. 

John sighed out at that, his worry only increasing. Somehow it was easier to think of Sammy unconscious and unaware, than awake and trapped in his own head. 

"...alright, then. Guess the journal isn't gonna be of much help." He stepped back. "You look like you could use some rest."

"Five days, no sleep." Dean yawned just thinking about it: "Hink e's givin' me'a break, now, though..." 

Three days out cold, but basically awake. Dean thought he could probably sleep for another two. As long as Sam didn't grab him up again, anyway. (Maybe he'd get to have a choice this time.) 

His lips smacked negligently. Man, he wanted a shower, too, but just... no.

"Sleep," John said, more a command than giving Dean leave to. "I'll stay here. I'm waking you every three hours." He wasn't about to let his oldest go into a coma again, and maybe not wake up next time.

Dean didn't need to be told twice. He slipped into the darkness again. But for the first time in five days Sam and Jess allowed him to actually sleep. _That_ was a relief.

John, as promised, woke him up exactly three hours later, and three hours after that, verified he wasn't brain dead, and allowed him to sleep more.

\----

The dark sky, the strange noises, the running, the sinking, the occasional, chilling fear at close brushes with what might be a very real death... Sam's warped brain was getting to be familiar territory for Dean. Once or twice he'd stumbled in really dreaming, and he wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

"Just for once, can't we have a nightmare about goin' to class naked for a test or somethin'?" 

He didn't think this Sam had any idea what he was talking about. He was working on that. They were in the woods. Somewhere out there, there was a werewolf. Dean had himself a knife, though. Good. The fact that it was probably stainless steel? Bad. He remembered this werewolf from back in the day. It'd been dicey. Hadn't he had a gun? 

Sam moved through the woods behind him, carrying his sickle shaped knife -- a present from Dean for his twelfth birthday, and his favorite weapon. It had a silver overcoat, making it useful in many situations.

A stick snapped somewhere nearby, and Dean stopped. It wasn't a werewolf, though, it was a young Asian woman in a little black and white dress, lighting a cigarette under a walk/don't walk sign, and the street rolled back around them, until they were downtown in New Jersey and Dean knew this one was his. That'd been happening more often, too, even when he was pretty awake. Dean remembered this chick, because he'd offered to walk her home and ended up upstairs and then she'd gone in the bathroom and shot up some bad heroin and things had gone downhill fast. Sam wasn't there back then, though. Off at college. But that made it worse, didn't it? It wasn't like he wanted his little brother seeing the bad calls he'd made in the past. He back stepped (into Sam), and realized the knife had vanished when he stopped paying attention to it. 

_Damn._

Sam looked curious, peering over his brother's shoulder at the girl, watching her bring the cigarette to her painted lips. 

"Who's that?" He asked - as always, unaware of the shift from forest to city. It seemed perfectly natural in a dream.

Dean shook his head.

"Let's go get somethin' to eat or somethin'." 

The girl glanced towards the shadows of the street, looking restless, a little nervous. She exhaled a cloudy breath in the night air, fidgeting with the cigarette as she waited for the light to change. Dean remembered mistaking the fidgeting for nervousness other than being off her fix. Back then, he’d offered to walk her home. Not this time, though.

Sam shrugged a little, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

"Alright." He nodded. There was something strange about the atmosphere of the whole place, the way that 'sex' seemed to roll off every person, every object, but Sam seemed to either not notice it or ignore it. 

Dean walked past her, swallowing down the lump stuck in his throat. He totally wasn't trying to wake Sam up until this passed. The street stretched out in both directions, lit with dirty yellow light, populated with faceless men and women, neon signs glowing red and blue and pink in windows. Dean looked for an alley off to somewhere scarier to Sam and more comfortable, but he didn't see anything. The dull, fading panic in his stomach was probably making it worse.

Sam didn't seem to notice it, and he walked through the city streets with his brother, looking up at the tall buildings.

"It's a shame we don't come to cities more often." He looked over at Dean. "It's nice. To be surrounded by other people, I mean."

People who didn't know who they were, what they'd done. They didn't stick out here.

Dean grinned at that. "Really? I thought you were more the 'shut yourself up with a book' kinda guy."

"I am," Sam responded with an easy smile. "But it's a nice change from the nowhere towns we're usually in." He paused, looking around at the faceless harlots and johns meandering the streets. "...though, this place is kinda odd."

Dean laughed and muttered 'Oh boy' under his breath. He turned off the road and pushed open the door to one of the establishments along the sidewalk. It wasn't any better. The faceless girls gaggled together, whispering to each other with intermittent bursts of high pitched giggles. The place stank like beer and like urine.

"...maybe should eat somewhere else," Dean suggested, standing at the door.

Sam shrugged a little.

"Yeah, if you want." He glanced around. It was sub par, insofar as their normal bar haunts went, but bars were rarely ever pleasant, so. Dean seemed uncomfortable. "What is it?"

Dean could see that Asian girl lying naked under the table by the window out of the corner of his eye, rasping shallow, strangled breaths. He'd read her name off her photo ID to the 911 operator, but he couldn't remember it, now. 

He looked anywhere but; hoped it didn't register with Sam. Shrugged his shoulders, chuckling dismissively.

"Nothin'. It's cool."

He turned to brush past Sam for the door.

Sam moved aside, letting Dean push past him. He wandered into the smoky atmosphere, and it felt like it was choking him. A familiar sensation somehow, but he couldn't say why. He coughed a bit, following his brother.

Dean pushed the door open, but it didn't lead back to the street. He flinched and pulled it shut, again. That way was even seedier.

"Too much trouble to find somewhere else. Let's just eat here."

He had a nagging feeling he might have hung around in Sam's head too long, again, this time. He had an itchy claustrophobic feeling. 

"I'm not really that hungry..." Sam muttered distractedly, wandering slowly towards the bar. All the women around them were naked, and Sam was beginning to notice that there weren't any men in the bar. They all looked like random women to Sam, but to Dean, their faces were flickers of one night stands.

Dean remembered them. Most of them. Not by name, but usually some little thing or other. That girl played guitar, and her? She was a gymnast. (Oh hell yeah she was.) That girl convinced him to let her see him in eyeliner. The blonde? Nipple piercings.

Dean lingered behind as Sam walked ahead. The Asian girl was still dying on the floor, but he was starting to forget. Wasn't anything wrong with enjoying the local flavor when you saw so many cities a month. Yeah, and accidents happened... 

A slinky Lebanese girl sidled up to him. He laughed to himself and let her kiss him. Who cared how seedy the bars were? Who cared that he didn't take Sam to places like this? Sam needed to let go a little more, anyway... (The environment was intoxicating.)

Sam turned, watching his brother kiss a naked girl, and he began to get some kind of sense that something was _wrong_ , but he couldn't tell quite what.

A full figured blonde approached him, placing her arms around Sam's neck and leaning in to kiss him. He shook his head, shoving her away.

"Hey!"

Dean lived on these fleeting attachments. They were easy. No expectations. He couldn't be let down. He lied to them, made them feel good about themselves... made them feel _good_. It was a public service. Down in the dumps? Not happy with your day job? Boyfriend a prick? Bang Dean Winchester. Guaranteed to pick you up.

Sam? John? Dealing with them was hard. It cost a lot of emotional exertion. There was only so much reward. For one night, these girls _loved_ him -- soft arms and pliant bodies, shuddering breaths and meaningless words.

Sam didn't know what he was missing. 

Dean could feel a third hand sliding over his shoulder. He felt cheap. He felt great. He felt like trash. He was turned on. It was all the same thing.

Another faceless girl crept up behind Sam, her arms sliding around his waist. He stepped forward and pushed her away.

"Stop it!" He just ended up bumping into another one. "Get off me!" He slapped at their grasping hands, all of them eager to have whatever bit of him they could have. He felt hands between his legs, and god it disgusted him. He tried to kick them, punch them, but no matter how many times they went down, they just came back up, crowding in all around him, and all around Dean as well, but Dean wasn't resisting.

Dean's teeth found the dark haired girl's earlobe; he bit her gently and listened to her groan in excitement. 

"Don't be such a stick in the mud, Sam," he called from against her skin.

He'd almost forgotten why he was here; _how_ he was here, the memory danced at the edges of his mind, like a word stuck on the tip of his tongue. He was slipping. This was what it looked like when Dean was sinking. He didn't lose himself to the darkness. No, it was that pulse-pounding carnal feeling. When he slipped past feeling like shit, this was where he lost himself.

"Why won't you help me...?" Sam said, staring over at his brother. Dean always came to the rescue. Dean always helped him. 

The Asian girl slid her arms around Sam's neck from behind, the two of them looking towards Dean through the sea of bodies.

"Why won't you help me....?" they said in unison, and then both disappeared from sight in the swell.

Dean had no way to keep track of how long his world was a hot and hazy red. When things cooled, he was lying curled on his side, chest heaving, his body spent, a helpless, tired smile on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. Sam... hadn't Sam been around somewhere? Where'd he get off to, anyway....?

Sam lay on the floor, somewhere in the empty room, some distant memory of a bar. He was laying half on his stomach, half on his side, his hoodie pulled over his head. His breathing was erratic, coming in swift jerks and pauses.

Dean pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His clothing was scattered on the floor. (Heh. How many mornings was that?) 

After a moment, he noticed Sam. He scowled with concern, groped around for his pants, stood, stepping into them and tugging them up, pulling the zipper up halfway as he stumbled over. 

"Hey..."

He crouched beside his brother, found his wrist to check his pulse.

Sam's weight shifted down, pushing himself up in one fast motion, his hand snapping up and hitting the bottom of Dean's jaw.

"Get away from me." He was sitting back on his calves, his hand still raised, as if he expected to have to use it to strike Dean again. His eyes were reddened, but still fierce with anger and grief.

Dean dropped back with a wordless exclamation, not fast enough to keep from getting smacked. He rubbed at this sore jaw, rough with stubble. He'd fallen back on his butt, not a great position to defend himself from. He looked at Sam squint eyed and wondering if he'd need to.

"...what's _that_ for?" 

"It's your fault." Sam hissed, and water dripped out of one of his eyes, which was strange, because Sam was freakish in his ability to not cry. Even when he was a baby, he only ever cried if something huge happened, like the fire over his crib. Once, when he was three, he dropped a knife (having picked it up from the bed during weapon cleaning time) and the thing dropped into his foot. He cried out, but never actually _cried_ over it. 

"You said you'd be there when I needed you but you _weren't_. Not when I really needed you."

Dean tried to remember what he could have done. There were girls. A lot of girls. What was bad about that?

"Thought I left you with those girls."

Sam began to cry in earnest, putting his face in his hands.

"Why wouldn't you help me? I wouldn't have done that if you had just helped me..."

Dean floundered, lost in the conversation. Sam wasn't a crier. ~~Dean was the crier.~~ He wanted to reach out, but he wasn't sure if Sam would try and wallop him again. He winced.

"Man, I don't know what your talkin' about!"

" _That!_ " Sam yelled emphatically, pointing upwards, looking up at the ceiling.

There were the girls. Burned, charred remains of who they had once been. Still moving.

It brought back memories. Memories of Dean’s childhood. Of the fire. The heat and the fear. He'd never really seen his mom pinned to the ceiling... but he'd imagined it. It had played through his head over and over again when he'd learned how it'd been.

Dean's stomach clenched. For a minute he sat there, dumbstruck with horror. Sam had done that...? He couldn't make sense of it. They both could be violent. They both _had_ to be violent.... But that... 

Sam glared at him with a hatred that was as hot as any fire, a hatred that burned.

"It's your fault." A force propelled Dean backwards, until his back met with a wall. "They wouldn't--..." He choked and gagged, his voice slipping back into misery. "They wouldn't get off me." So he made them.

Dean was afraid. Afraid of Sam. It wasn't the first time. Sam's powers freaked him out. He'd never admit it. Wouldn't show it, either. But it hurt... to see Sam hate him so hard. He swallowed, head shaking a little, side to side.

"Just wanted you to loosen up a little."

"I don't want to loosen up like that!" Sam yelled, and the force holding Dean against the wall was almost crushing. Dean began to slide upwards, towards the ceiling. "God it made me sick...You're my big brother! You're supposed to warn me away from people like that, but you just keep shoving them on me!" Sam fell forward, back hunched as he cried. 

"And now it's taking you, too."

Panic hit Dean cold in the stomach. He struggled against the force pinning him to the wall, but he was already exhausted... and even when he hadn't been, it'd been no good. It was a recent memory, flashing jagged through the dream, the demon holding him there, his blood spilling out over his shoulders... He clenched his jaw and clenched his eyes shut and tried to pull out the memories traipsing around the edge of his thoughts about the _why_ and the _where_ , but they eluded him.

" _Jesus_ , Sammy... Don't do this."

Sam collapsed on to his side, sobbing completely now.

"Don't leave me..." Sam said. Dean's head bumped against the ceiling as he shifted from the wall on to it. The girls were gone, somehow, and he slid along the ceiling until he was suspended over Sam.

Dean stared down at him, at Sam curled underneath him, crying. He knew what came next. He'd heard what came next. He hadn't really gotten a look at Jessica, at what happened to Jess, too busy pulling Sam out of the fire. (Jess...? There was something he was forgetting.) He was as scared as he'd ever been of anything. He might have cried, himself, but the fear preceded everything.

"I'm sorry, all right! God, I'm _sorry_!"

And for awhile, it was just that. Nothing happened next, no fire. Or at least, not yet. Finally, Sam rolled over on to his back, staring up at Dean with a dulled expression, but still somehow desperate, like someone who's been mourning too long.

"Everyone I love ends up on ceilings."

Dean sucked his breath in through his nose, fighting back tears. It didn't look good to cry. If his hands could've moved, he would've wiped his eyes, a reflexive gesture -- as it was, no matter what he did with his face he couldn't keep a tear from dripping down, falling a long way to the floor. His stomach was shaking, more like hummingbirds than butterflies. Didn't Sam know he was on his side...? Dean hadn't known... He wouldn't have thought. He figured Sam would just let go, at some point... not like this, though. Dean went limp against the force against his body. If it was Sam, why fight it?

Dean tried to say something, moved his lips a little (his lower lip trembled). It was too hard, too revealing. He balked at it and stayed quiet, just searching Sam's dull eyes. 

The tear fell, landing on Sam's cheek and mingling with his own. They stared at one another. Sam lifted a hand slowly, stretching out his fingers towards his brother...and then the flames started. Not in Dean, but beneath Sam, and the only force that was holding Dean down was gravity, because Sam was on the ceiling and Dean was laying on the floor.

Dean pushed himself up his elbows, shaking his head to himself, muttering _No, no, no_ underneath his his breath. It didn't matter. It didn't really matter if Sam freaked him out sometimes. For all he cared, Sam could go on a six state killing spree. Sam could've set him on fire, if he wanted. Sure, he would have been scared as hell, old childhood demons running wild in his mind. He wouldn't have blamed Sam, though.

This, Dean couldn't handle. This, he could only watch with his mouth hanging open a little and a couple more tears slipping out of his eyes and his body shaking, all clammy. This was worse than the end of his life: watching Sam die. The memories that had been trying to wake him vanished, his consciousness completely absorbed in the nightmare.

Sam burned until there was nothing left. Nothing but ash. He didn't fight it.

Then arms were around Dean, pulling him back, tugging him from a burning building, pulling him insistently out a door, into darkness. Someone was crouched down behind Dean, Dean's head against that person's chest. Through the door they could see nothing but fire, though it never dared to venture through that doorway.

Dean stared into the flame, limp in the arms of his rescuer, uncomprehending. He wasn't crying. His shock ran too deep for that. His breathing was shallow. His body had gone from clammy to numb. Sam... Sam was the project of his whole life. Dean wasn't good for much but shooting ghosts. But Sam? Even if Dean died, Sam had school, he had friends, he had other life skills... Sure, Dean resented that sometimes. Sure, he got jealous... Wanted to hold onto him, maybe more than he should. But what good was Dean, if he couldn't protect him? Worse, if it was his fault...

"...do you really think of me like that?" Sam asked, his arms secure around Dean's waist. He stared at the door, looking into the flames. There was nothing to either side of the door - just more darkness. No structures or streets or lakes, just black. Sam lowered his head, holding Dean tight back against him, his head tucked next to his brother's. "Do you really think I'd do something like that to you?"

Dean cracked a broken smile, feeling the heat of his cheeks through the numbness. Maybe he thought he was talking to Sam's ghost. Maybe part of him remembered he was dreaming. It didn't matter, right now.

"Y' scare me, sometimes..."

Scared him when Sam whipped out powers he didn't understand. Scared him when he thought he was going to lose him. Sam had an unprecedented ability to freak Dean out, like monsters, ghosts, and death couldn't.

"I didn't do it," Sam murmured softly. "I didn't...you know. That. With mom. And Jess." He tightened his arms. "I didn't...my..." He swallowed a bit. "The things I can do. It's not that. And even if I could, I'd never..." He sighed out, the side of his head pressed to the side of Dean's, his hair against his brother's cheek. "Please don't be scared. Not of me."

Dean couldn't promise that.

He could promise Sam a lot of things. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for him. But the way he felt when Sam was like 'Hey, Dean, I can move objects with my mind!' ... Dean wasn't sure he could control that. Maybe... maybe when he got more used to it.

He wanted to promise it, though -- if it meant Sam would stay with him longer than he meant to. He almost lied about it. He'd lied before, but he'd been composed, then. He could feel the words on his tongue. He weighed them out. Would Sam know...?

Sam sat there while Dean deliberated, but before Dean could say anything, the moment passed, and Sam gave up on it.

He lifted his head, easing his embrace around his brother's middle, shifting back until he could detach from him and stand up without worrying that Dean would fall back and bang his head (on the ground that wasn't there). He walked to the door, shutting it, the flames disappearing.

"Sorry about...you know, pretty much walking into your head, there." He leaned back against the door. "Sometimes I can find my way back here, where it's clearer, and I remember you being here and telling me I was asleep. I didn't wanna invade or anything, I just thought I heard you calling for me, so I went and opened it, and... saw that. Seemed like one hell of a nightmare, man."

Dean swallowed the lie back uncomfortably, shifted and zipped his jeans up, pushed the button through the hole with his thumb. 

His voice wasn't quite steady, yet, when he spoke, though he forced a quick grin. "Guess this shit's catchin' up to me."

Was funny; hadn't really wanted Sam to let go. Wasn't gonna make a thing out of it or anything. He was too old and too Dean to _need_ a hug. 

It was difficult. Being so close to one of the most important people in your life, knowing that they were afraid of you. It stung. Jess and Dean probably tied first place for most space in Sam’s heart -- for different reasons, obviously. He loved his Dad too, but Dean had been the one who really raised him, looked after him, and loved him. When it came down to it, Dean was _family_ , whereas their Dad fell more into a position like an uncle or second cousin. 

"Yeah..." Sam looked down awkwardly. "...well, I guess it's over now, right? Now that you know it's just a nightmare." He stepped away from the door, leaving Dean's passage to it clear. He settled himself back on the black nothing again, long legs propped up and hands clasped loosely around his knees.

"Yeah. Guess so."

Dean didn't really wanna leave Sam like this. Sam was already emo enough. Dean scratched his head, looking places other than Sam, trying to come up with the words -- you know, honest words. It wasn't easy for him. Even right now, totally alone with Sam who, freaked out by him sometimes or not, Dean was more honest with than any other person...

Dean didn't trust Sam. With the big life or death things? Sure. Nobody he wanted around more. Not even their dad. But Sam had left. He'd walked out, hadn’t said goodbye. Dean realized then that he didn't really know Sam. Not that well. There was a lot about Sam that was a real mystery to him. The visions, the telekinesis? It was just another wedge in the gap, setting his little brother further apart. It reminded Dean why he shouldn't trust anybody, and why he couldn't depend on anyone to take care of the family but himself. Who knew when people would be pulling wildcards out on him?

Dean wanted to say something, but he didn't know if he could afford it. 

It was pretty uncomfortable.

He got to his feet.

Sam offered him a smile, because he didn't know _why_ Dean was uncomfortable, but he knew that he was. Dean's face often read like an open book for Sam, and the moments when it didn't were terrible for him. He didn't want his brother to feel guilty for leaving, so he smiled for him, to let him know it was okay.

"You'll come back soon, right?" He even gave him something to say, instead of awkward silence.

Dean returned the smile. Nodded, putting on suave:

" _Absolutely_."

Mistrust him or fear him, Dean meant to take care of Sam. And he trusted him a lot more than when he first went to get him, months ago. He was starting to figure out what kind of guy his brother grew up to be... but he wasn't totally comfortable with him. Not yet.

Sam nodded slightly, and contented himself with that. He tucked his head to the side and waited for some kind of guide to get out of his own head.

Dean stepped out the door, pulling it closed behind him. Waking up wasn't hard for there. He was way more than ready to.

\----

John was still there: ever wakeful, ever vigilant. Dean had to wonder if he'd slept at all, but that was all he could really do. Asking him was definitely out of the question. He was looking through his journal, making some notes. Luckily, his right hand wasn't the one in the sling. He glanced up when Dean stirred.

"Saw Sam. Nothin' new."

It was becoming matter of fact. They were staying on in the dimming hope that Dean could lead Sam out somehow, but every dreamscape was more of the same.

Dean hoped he hadn't said anything in his sleep.

His father nodded slowly, and went back to his journal.

The next week progressed much the same. When Dean wasn't actually resting when he was sleeping, when he was with Sam, they were in that nothing darkness. It was better than the nightmares, at least. They could hear it moving around the edges, but it never seemed to come. Every time Dean left, Sam would ask him if he was going to come again -- every time he did, he seemed to depend on the answer more. At first it was said almost jovially, but by the weeks end it was a means of reassurance. Besides Dean's answer, Sam had little to look forward to, trapped as he was.

By the time the week was over, though, the signs started up. The demons knew where they were, and they were coming. "We have to go," John said, staring out the window of Dean's hospital room, looking out at the electrical storm brewing overhead.

Besides being intermittently comatose, there wasn't much wrong with Dean anymore. His blood count was back up, he'd gotten his strength back. He was ready to move. That was good, seeing as they needed to. He followed his dad's gaze out the window.

"We're bringin' Sam." 

He said it matter of fact. If John was gonna overrule him, he'd do it whether Dean was adamant or not.

John sighed.

"And how do we do that?" He glanced back at him. "Set him up in the truck bed with his oxygen and heart monitor?" He shook his head. "It's just not possible, Dean. I wish to God it were, but it ain't." He paused. "We can get him moved - to another hospital, one where they won't find him. That's the best we can do for him at this point...we..." He sighed again, looking down at the parking lot several stories below them. "We gotta face facts. He could be like this for years. He might never get up again."

Dean saw it John's way. He could see why his dad would feel that way. It was hard to believe, though, when Dean was still talking to Sam almost every day.

"We don't know he can't breathe on his own by now." His brow furrowed, he tried to work the words out "If Sam's not with us... That's it, innit? They'll pick him up. We won't see him again. Don't tell me they won't."

John turned around from the window to look at Dean. "Fine, let's say he can breathe on his own. How would we feed him without the tube? We just don't have the means to look after him, Dean. If there's any chance of him living, it's gonna be in a place like this -- and you _know_ how much I hate to say that." John didn't really believe in hospitals. Broken leg? Splint. Dislocated shoulder? Wall. Getting ripped to shreds? Stitches and a lot of booze. "If we take him with us, I tell you now, he will die, Dean. He will die."

Dean was pretty damn sure that he was right. But... John was right, too. Didn't mean Dean would agree to it by more than not disagreeing anymore.

Still, John took the silence to mean consent, because he wasn't used to Dean ever disobeying him, really. He turned from the window, walking out of the room to begin to make arrangements for Sam's transferal.

Dean had always been impressed by the way John handled things. The patterns John mapped out in his journal were things Dean never would have thought to look for. Whatever case they were on, John always seemed two steps ahead of what was going on. His orders almost always panned out to success, and they'd seen Dean through some tough situations. 

So, when had things changed? How many times had Dean doubted or raised his voice to his father since John came back into his life? More times than he ever had before John left, that was for sure. It would've been nice to think it was because he'd gotten smarter, or more mature, or something had changed in himself... but Dean had a pretty good idea what it really was, just from how much harder it was to speak his mind without Sam around.

It was odd, given that it was Sam who had been completely raised in that environment. It would probably have made more sense if the one who had had some experience living a normal life had been the one to eventually rebel, and not the one who should have been so immersed in it that he would never see the alternatives.

Still, Sam hadn't had trouble speaking his mind to his father since he was fourteen. Since then, it had been nothing but battles, until he left four years later.

Dean had never really leaned on Sam in those days. They'd bickered and pranked each other and worked together on hunts, but when the lines were drawn, Dean stood on John's side. It was a fact of raising a kid that you didn't see them as someone to rely on.

Sam had grown up with that, and, for a time, he tried. He tried to be the perfect hunter, he tried to be just like Dean, tried to win John's respect and approval. But it never came, and Sam didn't realize that it never came for Dean, either. John expected his boys to be his soldiers; soldiers didn't get praised for doing their job. It was only after Sam realized he'd never be enough that he gave up on trying. 

Dean, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped trying until John dropped him.

Dean climbed out of the hospital bed and started getting dressed. With all the time he'd spent unconscious, he was feeling sluggish, kind of... fat. It wasn't that he hadn't been pushups and sit-ups in between passing out and nurses checking in, but stationary workouts weren't much substitute for really being in action.

Dean thought about finding John and went up to Sam's recovery room, instead. (He knew his dad would think to find him there.) He couldn't afford to go under again, because he didn't know when he'd be waking up, but he stuck his hands in his pockets and he told Sam out loud: "We're movin' out. We're gettin' you transferred. May be a little while before I can put my guard down, an' you probably aren't catchin’ this... Time's up, man. Wakin’ up anytime now'd be good."

Of course, there was no response. Sam just lay there as he always did, his eyes closed and his breathing slow. He looked a little better anyways, physically. Less blood and swelling. Less bruises.

Dean hadn't really expected something. Not right away, at least. He tilted his head to the side, flashed a smile. "Lookin' good there. Sure you'll be back with us in no time."

Dean wasn't going to get emotional about leaving, or anything. Hell, no.

\----

_Sam was waiting. He had nothing else to do but wait. He sat directly in front of the door, what might have been considered a few paces back, if measurement applied in a place like this. He would keep his legs propped up, his head resting on his knees._

_He was just like that when he felt it. He looked up and saw the door begin to fade, and his breath caught._

\----

Dean scuffed the floor with his boot, looked at Sam a long moment, shook it off, and headed put of the ward. He had to believe John was right, that transferring Sam to another hospital was the best thing, because John was right, at least, that Dean couldn't feed Sam, and probably couldn't keep him breathing. No degree of devotion would make those things possible.

\----

_And then the door was gone, and there was nothing left but him and the dark._

_It wasn't in Sam's spirit to give up. He wasn't the type to do such a thing. But if there were ever a moment that it tempted him most, this was it._

\----

Dean leaned back against the door and waited for John to catch up to him, keeping an eye out for anybody suspicious... like somebody with big, black eyes he was going to get killed by.

John came to Sam's room, suspected that might be where Dean wandered off to. He nodded to his eldest.

"The paper work's been filled out." His eyes flickered to the bed. "It's time to go."

Dean nodded his consent wordlessly. He was sure John already had it all figured out; where they were going, what they were riding in. It wasn't hard to fall back into the role of the good soldier, even if he didn't fit into it as comfortably as he used to.

\----

As the days turned to weeks, Dean and John fell back into the old routines. John found things for them to hunt, and Dean did what he said, for the most part, although he spoke up more, gave input in the decision making process.

There was more caution, more paranoia this time around. Keeping on the move wasn't too different, but making sure there wasn't a pattern to their job locations was. They salted windows and entryways, and checked in with each other more than they otherwise would have. There was no room to get comfortable -- not until they were sure they'd really covered their trail, anyway. John bought himself a new cell phone and changed both their numbers in case Meg had taken more than Sam’s. The high security cut in on Dean's philandering, and hell if this wasn't the kind of situation where he needed that coping mechanism. He looked forward to the time when John was satisfied that fake IDs would cover their tracks well enough, again.

The Impala was totaled. Dean idolized that car since he was old enough to play with Hotwheels. Claiming her as his was the big step to adulthood. Now she was scrap, and the insurance money they got on her was nothing. The ratty trade-Mazda they'd picked up from a Ford dealership didn't have the same soul. The exhaust pipe rattled while Dean drove, but what'd he expect for four thousand dollars?

All that, and Dean couldn't get in touch with Sam. He figured it had to be a proximity thing. Maybe Sam's whacky powers didn't work long distance -- FM, not AM radio. But it gnawed at him, ate him up, and left him uneasy. By now, Sam was in a third hospital, under a fake name, and that was about all they could do for him. Still, Dean lay awake sometimes at night and wondered what was going on in his brother's head. Was he having the nightmares again without him? Was he just waiting there in the dark? He didn't like it, either way.

One time, Dean flipped open his cell phone and looked at Cassie's number. Somebody sane. But he wasn't much on the small talk, and he wasn't going to cut in on her life with _Hey. Being stalked by demons. Yeah, the kind from hell. Sam's in a coma. Good times._

Once again, there was nobody in his life; just the raw, lonely ache that Dean always feared would be all he had left in the end. John barely counted against it.

\----

_Sam was alone in the dark, and after awhile, he just stopped trying. It felt like years had passed since he'd last seen Dean, and he had little hope of seeing him again. He'd looked everywhere for that door, looked everywhere for a speck of light to guide him out, or even the speck of light that would lead himself some place all together different._

_There was nothing._

\----

A dark man in a trench coat, little more than a collection of shadows with yellow eyes, looked down at Sam in his hospital bed. He pulled out the intubated tubes, and Sam's body coughed a bit and wheezed.

"No more resting now." The man said. "You've given me a lot of trouble, hiding all over the place. I was willing to let you go, for getting rid of that man. He's very troublesome, isn't he? I'm sure growing up with him as a father was a trial. You'll be happier when you remember. Then you can play with his entrails for as long as you like." He put his hand on Sam's forehead. "But they got away, anyways... It's okay. I forgive you. See? Open your eyes. I brought you a present."

\----

Sam felt something wet. Something dripping on him. _What_ is _that_? He shook his head blearily. It just ended up splashing on his cheek. He frowned, blinking. He could hear voices, distantly. Voices coming over intercoms, sounding bored and flat. In the hall he heard slow footsteps. Where was he? What happened?

The last thing he remembered was driving in the Impala, driving... ( _In nomine Patri, et Fili, et Spiritus Sancti..._ ) ...and then nothing. A few things popped into his head, but he couldn't quite grasp them. Dreams. Some weird dreams, none of which he really recalled.

He shifted on the uncomfortable bed, trying to figure out if this was a motel room or not. He squinted up at the ceiling. His eyes locked with those of a woman, a nurse. She was crying and bleeding at the same time, pinned up over his bed, and he had nothing to say, to do, but stare up at her in her last moments of life, and his heart shuddered in his chest with such horrible panic that it felt like it just might stop.

John received a phone call later that week. When he got off the phone he looked ashen, just standing in the motel room, near the desk, phone still clasped open in his hand.

Seeing his dad looking like that, usually the picture of reserve, Dean didn't beat around it, fear clenching him.

"Is it Sam?"

John took a small breath, just very small, his lips moving, pursing, and sagging open again. He didn't look up from his hands.

"...there was a fire. At the hospital." He was quite again for a long time, and shut his eyes. "They said they couldn't find Sam."

Dean remembered his dream, Sam burning up like that... It was his first thought, his first fear. But that was stupid. People had crazy dreams. Sam said his dreams came over and over again. It wasn't like Dean could see the future. (Didn't mean it hadn't happened that way, anyway, though.) He searched John's face for something, anything to get his thoughts on the track he knew had to be true. Sam couldn't be dead. Not like that.

"God damn it!" John yelled suddenly, throwing the phone against the wall, not caring when it shattered. He leaned against the wall with both hands, panting raggedly.

He did what he had done to protect Sam. He was a piss poor father, he knew that, but he had wanted to protect his boys.

Dean jerked back, reflexes kicking in in surprise. He was still staring at him, but wider eyed, startled, because he'd never seen his dad like this: this open, this off his guard, this hurt. Dean's earlier fear crept up, taking hold with chill fingers. If Sam wasn't dead... had he been right? Had the demons taken him? He looked from away from John's suffering, off at the wall, overwhelmed by his own sudden misery. If that was the case... 

...Dean knew he had to calm down. He knew he had to think about this like it wasn't the worst case scenario, in case he was wrong, in case Sam needed help. For a minute, though, he sat there stunned, trying to work through it.

John just stood there, his face shadowed from view.

One by one the Winchester's seemed to fall. One by one. And this one...This one, John couldn’t pretend it wasn’t his fault. He already blamed himself for Mary's death, in an abstract sense -- if he hadn't gone downstairs that night, she wouldn't have died. But this... This wasn't abstract. He had abandoned his son. He had left him to die.

He pushed himself suddenly off the wall. He wasn't crying. That wasn't John's way. He crossed the motel floor and grabbed his eldest son in a fierce embrace, because they were all that was left of this family. Hugs had never been strange to any of them. Mary had always encouraged him to be affectionate with his boys, and he had been happy to. They were his greatest treasures. And afterwards... well, perhaps that affection had been stilted, less prevalent, but it never faded out entirely.

Dean was still staring ahead, his eyes unfocused. It took him a minute to realize John's arms were around him, that he was there in the motel with him, even. His thoughts had been racing down all the wrong paths. The tension slipped out of him when he caught up with himself. He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against his dad's shoulder, arm slipping loosely around John's back, fingers gripping his shirt.

Sam might be out there. He might be alone. He might be disoriented; scared, even. That was Dean's first priority. He knew that. He had to work himself up to the words. 

"We gotta go there."

John nodded a bit, pulling back.

"We gotta look into it," he agreed. He took a deep breath, one of the hardest breathes he'd ever taken, then moved away, moving to his clothing and weapons, all carefully organized, and began to swiftly pack them away.

"They said the fire had started on his floor, or the one above it. Has to have been Him. The demon. Took out half that side of that building." He shoved the clothing into the bags. "They couldn't move all the patients out in time." He grit his teeth and paused at that. He only spoke again when he was picking up his bags and the pieces of his phone. "We'll find out what happened. We'll take this thing out, for Sammy."

Dean was packing, too. He was never half as organized. He stuffed it all in together, clean clothes and dirty clothes, sorted it out later, by smell.

"Don't talk like he's dead. You sound like him." Dean paused, added, clarifying: "You weren't." He didn't want to have some tear-jerker moment about that, so he added, breathlessly, "Take both cars. Hate gettin' stuck with one." The way he said it was more of a suggestion.

"Dean..." His father looked at him, with the look of regret, the look that people had when they thought someone was deluding themselves. He shook his head. "Alright." He didn't often (or ever, really) take orders. But now was different. He lifted his bags and walked down to their cars.

Dean slung his pack over into the passenger's seat and climbed in, revving the old clunker up. It didn't make that finally tuned purr the Impala gave him, sounded more like a dog choking on something. He hated this car. He glanced over his shoulder to check his back and wheeled out of the parking space.

Dean wasn't deluding himself. It was probably a trap. John's 'death' had been a trap.

\----

_Sam had human ashes under his finger nails, but even though he couldn't get that thought out of his head, he knew it was the least of his concerns._

_He was scrambling over the asphalt, the fire that lit the streets so brilliantly was behind him. He didn't know that a few days later, when stocks of damages were taken, one shaken nurse would be left to make the worst phone calls, one that would be going to his family._

_All he knew was that he had to get away. He ran barefoot over the pavement, that wild look in his eyes that only the truly desperate or truly mad have, and he slipped and went face first into a puddle. He gasped for air and pushed himself up, swaying._

_He had no idea where to go._

\----

It wasn't a one day drive. Even driving pretty much all day, they had to pull over at a rest-stop to catch a couple hours of sleep. Dean had driven less alert, though. He hung on John's tail, since John couldn't ring him from the phone. The radio went out around midday, more than banging on the dashboard would fix. Dean listened to the rattling of the tailpipe as they sped.

When they got to the hospital, everything was in understandable disarray. The fire really had taken out a good quarter of the building. They knew why, of course. It was no normal fire that started with a flicker and worked its way up. It was a flash of heat and burning and it could take out a whole room in a matter of seconds.

Patients were being shuffled around, and they could tell that the entire hospital staff had been called in, bustling and moving and trying to organize people. They all looked exhausted.

Lying a way in was no tall order. Buzz was the fire was caused by some explosive device, even if bomb squad reports had come back negative. So, it was Homeland Security. Enough of a front to navigate unquestioned around the tired staff members and police officers and find out a few key facts: one of the nurses had died at the source of the explosion, they’d picked out her necklace and belly button stud in her charred remains. But that, in itself, struck Dean as weird, although the lack of clear evidence to suggest Sam died in the explosion was a relief.

"Why would he kill this chick? She doesn't have anything to do with us. Mom, Jess... and some nurse?"

He'd kept thinking of Jessica as Jess since she helped his ass out in the dreamscape. Cute girls and cute nicknames went together... (Even with Sam's technically-dead girlfriend.)

John sighed, thinking it over.

"It's possible. But she wasn't the only person to die in there, Dean." Half the corpses they were wheeling out had yet to be identified. "Still. I'm going to the public records. I’ll see what I can find out about the victims. Her included." He added. 

"Alright. Sounds like a start. Want me to keep pokin’ around here? See if we missed anything?" Truth was, Dean wanted to get on his own to follow up his, you know... delusions. He hadn't accepted the possibility that Sam died in a coma. Why blow somebody up if Sam was just going to sleep through it? Dean wished he could get inside the damn demon's head.

John nodded, giving his consent without words. He moved to his truck, getting in. He left his son to do what he had to do: to find out more, and to get closure.

On his own may have been where Dean wanted to be, but once he was he wasn't sure where to start looking. He asked all the questions he could think of. He snuck in and took a look at the corpses, too... just to prove himself right. (He was relieved he didn't recognize any of them as Sam.) He got changed in the car and went to McDonalds and ate something two dollars and unhealthy and tried to think things out from his version of the story. If he was a demon, why would he blow up somebody's mom, their girlfriend, and their nurse? Mary and Jessica had died on November second, and today was March seventeenth. More importantly, if Dean was Sam, and he was alone in this city, what would he be doing?

\----

As it turned out, Sam was still disoriented. And, still thoroughly panicked. He'd tried calling everyone he knew, but nothing. John and Dean’s numbers were obsolete. Caleb and Pastor Jim were dead... couldn't get the new numbers through them. He'd only had enough presence of mind to start calling people the other day. Before that, he'd been tucked up on a stone step in some back alley, unable to move from the paralyzing fear.

It was only much later that he thought of Bobby.

It took twelve tries to get the number right, either because he barely remembered it, or because his hands were shaking. He was whispery and hoarse and it took a lot of convincing to get Bobby to give him the number. His hand shook even more when he dialed it; the one that Bobby said would get him through to Dean.

Dean dug his cell phone of his pocket and checked the number. Not one he recognized. He flipped it open up to his ear. "Dean Winchester."

His finger nails scraped along brick.

"Dean?"

......

Dean pushed himself out of his chair, leaned on the table with one hand.

"Sam? Where are you?"

"I don't know." He gripped the phone booth. "I don't know what's going on, or where I am, or... anything." He leaned his forehead against the phone, unwilling to look around him. "...am I awake? I can't tell... what's... What's going on?" He sounded panicked.

Dean tried to talk slow for all he felt a pressing sense of urgency.

"You're awake. Need y'to calm down. I'm gonna come get you. I gotta know where you are, though. You near a street sign or anything?"

Dean knew vaguely that it could be some sort of trap, but he didn't much care. He'd deal with it when he got there.

"I can't calm down! She's dead!!" he shouted suddenly, and then sank to the ground. He let the phone dangle, hanging from the public phone that he'd scrounged together enough change to use. For almost three minutes there was no response, no matter what Dean said. Finally he spoke again. 

"I'm near...overpass, highway...Maybe an interstate? I'm on a hill...main street up at the top. Near a library."

Everyone in the McDonalds was staring at Dean, who’d started raising his voice. Dean was just relieved to hear Sam talk again. 

"You know any of the name of that library?"

"No," Sam said simply.

"It's fine. I'll find you. Just stay put, okay? I'll explain it all when I get there."

Dean knew he'd been right. John should listen to him more often. His dad... No way to get in contact, now.

Sam let the phone dangle there. He heard it beep at him, but it didn't matter because it wasn't Dean's voice. He stared at the overpass, listening to the cars speed pass, and he imagined every car coming up the street to be the Impala, whose backseat he could lay down in and shiver until all this dirt, all this blood shook off of him.

It took some doing to track down the position. Dean started by asking the McDonalds staff, who could already tell it was an emergency, managed to get the general location out of them, but he had to stop by some gas stations on the way to get pointed in the right direction. Once he pulled the clunker up on the curb, it took a little walking around to find Sam. When he saw him he broke into a jog, aware if something wanted to jump out at him, he was barely on his guard.

Sam was still in his hospital gown, and there were smears of dried blood on his forehead and cheeks, but no wounds. He was pressed close to the brick, eyes mostly shut. He heard footsteps and he was scared to open his eyes. Last time he'd heard footsteps he'd looked up and seen _her_. But these were different. Heavy, fast. _Dean._

He opened his eyes and saw the only person who could ever glue his world back together again.

Dean dropped down next to him, reached out to get a hold of him and look him over, see if he was hurt. He asked it, too, even though he didn't see anything obvious, because if something was wrong besides the obvious trauma they needed to deal with it: "You hurt?"

"I don't know," he said, the only answer he could cling to. His knees, feet and hands were scraped up from running and falling on rough pavement, but other than that, there weren’t any injuries he could feel.

Dean let himself feel relief, because he held it off, and it was making his chest tight and breathing harder. He nodded, let Sam know he heard him, while the white wave of emotion churned through him. Sam was warm under his hands, reassuringly alive. 

Sam looked rough. Bloodied, unshaven, dirty... Sam had never looked better, because he was there. If Sam was a demon... Dean would be fucked, anyway.

Dean closed his eyes and collected his thoughts. He was here. He had Sam. _Thank god._ Sam didn't seem to be injured. Dean needed to keep him calm, get him somewhere safe. 

"...okay."

Sam quirked his head slightly, having sworn he heard Dean say 'Thank God', which was a very not-Dean thing to say. Dean didn't really express things aloud. But, honestly? Sam had bigger, more confusing things to deal with.

He tugged at the edges of his hospital gown.

"I know you wanna... talk, or whatever, but we're gettin' off the street." He grinned in a way that wasn't _too_ reassuring and started getting Sam up to his feet, making sure Sam had him to lean on on the way up because he wasn't 100% on Sam holding it together and he didn't know how much atrophy had hit him from lying around so long.

Sam’s muscles were pretty torn. He'd been laying in a bed for somewhere in the vicinity of three months now, and his muscles were well on their way into atrophy. His sprint away from the hospital wasn’t remotely healthy. He leaned on Dean as he was lead back to a car he didn't recognize. He didn't say anything about it though, just got into the passenger's side, his long body comical in the gown.

Dean slid in on his side and pulled the door shut. He turned the key in the ignition and listened to the car hack and wheeze as it struggled to turn the engine over. _Stupid piece of shit._ He tensed up, glared at the car, locked in a battle of will, and rolled his eyes up in relief as the engine came to life. John had been over the car, bumper to bumper, before they bought it. It wasn't like it wasn't going to work. The guy was a professional mechanic. But going from his fine-tuned Impala to this crusty, cranky ride-on-the-cheap was a real low blow to Dean's ego. He'd gotten under the hood to tune it up a few times when he had a minute, but the time he spent there disillusioned him even further of his chances of getting laid. John had made some minor adjustments when they had a little free time in the same place, but it would be awhile and a few parts before the car performed at speed. 

The clunker rattled out onto the road, and Dean steered it back towards the motel they were staying at at the edge of town.

Sam watched the world outside the window with a sense of detachment. He was deeply into trauma land. He was a Winchester, and thus fairly durable, but there were limits, even for them. The circumstances of his waking up, waking up period, and everything else, had combined to make a haze of fear and panic difficult to escape from. He didn't have a safe island to perch on and try to figure out what to do.

Sam was significantly calmer, though, now that Dean was here. If anything, Dean was, in and of himself, a safe island. Later, when he was more composmentos, he'd notice the not-Impala.

Dean was pretty happy they weren't talking about the car. He'd be even happier if they _never_ talked about it. He preferred to mourn his main squeeze in dark solitude. 

He tried turning on the radio, but all he got was a weird electrical popping so he turned it off again. A car fire wasn't where he was headed right now. He glanced over at Sam from time to time as they drove. They'd have to get some Sam-sized clothes. Guy was like freakin' bigfoot. He slung the clunker into a parking space outside the motel and walked around to help Sam out of the car, clapped hands with him and pulled him onto his feet. The room was on the second floor, and Dean didn't trust him on the stairs. He wondered if John had gotten back yet, and it finally occurred to him he should call him.

Sam leaned against him, arm slung over Dean's shoulder so that his brother could support his weight. His feet rested on the pavement, and he gazed downwards. He looked up slowly when he noticed they weren't moving.

Dean stared at him a few seconds. The bad reaction time wasn't really a surprise, though. Just... hard to watch. He shook his head, thought about carrying him -- Sam was a heavy fucker, though -- and got him moving, watching the ground because Sam was barefoot and out of it and likely to slice his foot open. Stairs... could Sam do it?

"I'll be fine." He responded to Dean. His legs hurt, but the physical pain was far less than the rest. Physical pain he was pretty used to. Hell, emotional pain he was pretty used to. 

This whole situation was just...different.

Dean gave him a smile that said he'd believe that, when Sam _was_ fine.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean got Sam up to the room, sat him down in a chair and checked the salt lines and checked the bathroom. You could never be too paranoid, if you were a Winchester. He nodded to himself, satisfied the room was secure, and flipped the bathroom light off. He called John: “Come back to the motel. It’s important.” No explanation. Dean hung up. Dean needed to take care of Sam, not report in to John. John didn’t have an exclusive on the cryptic thing. He looked over at Sam. Alright. He was Sam’s. For... questions, or whatever.

Sam was looking at his forearms, dirty with soot and grime. The truth was that half of it was the remains of the nurse. He rubbed his hands over it.

"Should I wash it off?" He asked finally. "Seems a little disrespectful."

"If y' want." Dean walked over and started digging through his clothes, sniffing a couple of shirts until he found a clean one. Found his sleeping jockeys. He looked at a pair of jeans; looked back at Sam. "...dude. You're not gonna fit in my pants."

He went to rifle through John's stuff, feeling a tinge of irreverence. (Hey, it was an emergency, or something.) Sam wouldn’t fit _well_ in that, but maybe better.

Sam kept rubbing his forearms. It felt like she was sinking into his skin.

He watched Dean move around, and it was all like watching a television, watching some actor moving about in someone else's skin.

"What happened...? Why am I here?" He began to shake a little, his stomach roiling suddenly as the shock began to wear thin. "What...I don't know where I am, or what's going on, or why this is happening, and...we were in the car, and then I woke up. She was over me, again, someone... And she burned. I don't know why I'm here. Why am I here? And I tried calling you but it said your number wasn't there anymore." He was going to be sick. He leaned over. "What happened?" He had no memory of the crash, only of waking up after what seemed like endless years of dreams that he couldn't remember, and he didn't know if he was awake or asleep, what city he was in, what had happened to him, his brother wasn't there and some woman was burning over him. _Again_. He began to throw up on the motel carpet.

Dean turned around and stared at Sam as Sam got into babbling, holding some of John's clothes. He tossed them on the bed and jogged over to steady Sam's shoulders while he puked. (This took him back a lot of years.) He patted Sam’s back to try and ground him as the last vomit dribbled out. Man, that stunk. He waited until Sam was breathing okay before he told him anything, bit his lower lip, and then said:

"Demon crashed a truck into us... You fought him off. Exorcised him, maybe. He choked the air outta you... You've been in a coma. Three months." He watched his reaction, checking to see if Sam got it or was more out of it than he seemed.

Sam was shaking from the adrenaline that had finally hit his system. He stayed leaned over, head between his knees. The vomit was mostly liquid -- the goopy stuff they'd been giving him in his feeding tube.

Three months.

He shut his eyes tightly.

"She's dead." The words were a little garbled, as speech always is after throwing up.

Dean tried to make eye contact with him, but it was no good.

"I’ve toldja before: that kind of thing’s not your fault, Sam," he said, warningly, voice low and steady. Yeah, people loved to set women on fire over his brother's bed. That didn't have anything to do with Sam, though, just the sick fucker what did it to him.

"Doesn't matter," Sam mumbled, his lower lip not wanting to move when he wanted it to. "Still happens. It doesn't matter if it's my _fault_ or not. She's still dead and all that's left is _this_..." He held out his arms, looking at the black ash. "Who cares whose fault it is...? I can't do this. I can't go to sleep wondering who it's going to be next."

Dean stayed quiet. It wasn't what he wanted to hear, after having Sam gone all this time, but it was pretty much what he might've expected. It wasn't that he was dismissing Sam's concerns... But he wasn't making room for them. His voice was firm: "Let's get you cleaned up."

Sam sort of looked at Dean, as if he expected more to come. He had that look that someone has when they have only one person to depend on and they realize that it's the wrong person for the wrong job. 

Not to bad mouth Dean. Dean was probably one of the best big brother's in the history of the world. Sam recognized that, even if they bickered often. Dean would always, always come through for him. He always had his back. There were few people who had someone like that.

But right now Sam needed someone who could _talk_ with him, someone who understood him. He realized he needed _Jess_. Jess, who would never be there ever again because she'd burned up over his bed, like all the people who tried to take care of him seemed to do.

He shut his eyes and the look passed. He nodded, letting Dean direct him.

Dean steered him into the bathroom, flipping the light switch on again. It was sort of like steering around a big Sam cow. He pivoted him so his back was to the wall and left him standing there while he got the water going. 

Dean understood the look Sam gave him. It was the same kind of look Sam always gave him when he wanted to get into something touchy-feely but... Dean wasn't sure he had what Sam needed, even if he tried. He wasn't that guy. He hadn’t seen Sam in three months. He was freaked to hell and back by everything, and Sam’s vote of no confidence was making him second guess himself.

He ducked out of the bathroom a minute to crack open the little hotel shampoos and soaps on the sink counter and brought them in and sat them by the tub. 

Satisfied with the setup, he looked over at Sam, held his hands out like ' _I got nothin_ ’'. 

"You good? 'cause I can wash you like you're three." He flashed a grin. It'd been a long time since he had given Sam a bath.

"I'm fine," Sam said, not much in the mood for joking. His stomach sank. It made it difficult to appreciate all the things Dean did for him when he chose to crack jokes at a time like this. When he desperately needed someone who could just talk with him. He moved passed his brother, undoing the strings of the hospital gown with methodical movements.

Winchester's didn't really do modesty - it was too much of a challenge when you lived in the same cramped room.

It was hard. It was hard as hell to see Sam like this and feel helpless to do anything about it, to know their dad probably wouldn't do him much better. It was less of a choice and more of a survival tactic, Dean and inappropriate jokes. If Sam was busy being mad at him, at least he was thinking less about the shit he'd been through. 

He did the eye slide over Sam's body, that half-second gesture he'd practiced in bars across the country: bloody, dirty, lost some weight and muscle -- no injuries Dean hadn't spotted yet, though. That was good. Sam had some bedsores on the backs of his thighs and on his shoulder blades, but they weren't too severe. Now that he was moving around, they'd heal up in time.

Dean had checked Sam out enough times before to have a good baseline to compare from. Dean nodded to him and stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. _Vomit cleaning time. Whoo-hoo._

Sam moved into the flow of the shower, the hot water running over his skin like absolution, washing away the blood and ash. He scrubbed himself with sore limbs, getting the worst of it off, watching her remains run down the drain with a sick feeling in his stomach. He threw up again, retching into the shower. It was all bile, though, and it flowed away with the water.

After that, he was cold, no matter how hot he made the water. When he was done he dried off and put on the shorts Dean left for him. He came back out into the room and looked at the bed, then bypassed it for the chair instead.

Dean was scrubbing the floor with both hands on a towel when Sam came out, but he was already standing up and pretending he wasn't. He opened the door and tossed the towel outside and wiped his nose with the side of his hand and looked manly about it. He looked over at Sam, concerned, checking on how he was holding up. 

Sam sat in the chair, then glanced over at Dean. Oh yeah. The vomit.

"Do you want some help?" he asked.

"Nah. I got it. They're gonna bring up some carpet cleaner." 

Dean smirked, jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the door.

The puddle was already mopped up, the threads of the carpet still clinging together wetly, pushed around from the scrubbing.

Dean raised his brows at Sam queryingly.

"Y' need anything?"

This was Dean trying. It wasn't much. People wouldn't pay for it.

"No," Sam responded, shaking his head. He folded his arms on the table, laying his head down on them slowly.

Dean looked at him a few seconds before giving up, walking over to sit on the bed, back against the pillows, and wait for the maid service. He wondered if Sam remembered anything... all that time he spent in his head. It didn't seem like it. Would Sam have brought it up by now? Should he bring it up, himself? He wondered if he should tell him about Jess or not, and what he should say. It had gotten pretty easy to hang out, there in dark. This was a lot tougher. He tried to do something besides stare at Sam and feel like a tool... like stare at the blank television screen, arms folded behind his head, brow furrowed in private brooding. _Good goin', Dean. You're fuckin' useless._

He looked up at the ceiling a few seconds, said, finally, in the quiet, watching Sam's deflated form: "...it's good t'have y' back." That wasn't so hard. Felt like a weight lifting off him.

Sam looked at the curtained window, then let his eyes move to Dean's form. He looked stiff, uncomfortable. He looked back at the window and the faint light that came through the fabric.

"You don't have to talk, if you don't want to."

Dean looked away, off towards the bathroom. It was a bad time to be caught up in his own shit. Three months. He'd missed Sam everyday. Missed bickering, missed talking, and missed waking up in the middle of the night to put a pillow over his head the rare occasion that Sam snored... Just having somebody around. Even when John was around, John wasn't really there. 

Anybody else would've hugged Sam already. Anybody else would've done a lot of things, by order of decreasing intimacy. But Dean was an emotional guy. More emotional than a lot of people. He knew it, and it made him vulnerable. It wasn't something he wanted to share. It was, often as not, a liability. He needed Sam to see him as solid, especially at a time like this. If he busted down crying, who would that help?

After a few minutes the help knocked on the door, an old Mexican woman, and Dean took the carpet cleaner and the extra towels and insisted to her he could handle it, that charming smile turned on full. He couldn't have the service in the hotel room... with the guns, and the knives, and the weird clippings, and the rock salt. He closed the door behind him with his foot.

Sam shifted out of sight, since a mostly naked dude sitting around would be kind of weird. He felt a little bad. He knew he was making his brother feel bad, but at the moment he was well into selfish territory. He was having trouble thinking about other people at the moment. He picked up the pants Dean found for him, putting those on as well.

He moved to take the towels and cleaner, feeling he should help out, despite how Dean played it off. He had, after all, thrown up all over the carpet. He knelt down, setting himself to clean.

Dean looked at him kind of funny. What was he supposed to do with his hands if Sam took his cleaner? He threw his hands up like 'Okay, your call,’ at Sam's back.

Dean didn't mind if Sam was feeling selfish. A guy who just got out of a three month coma and woke up to a burning lady on the ceiling wasn't expected to be thinking about the family. Dean wandered over to his pack and dug out some of his weapons, holding them up for inspection. He found a knife that looked a little dull on the edge and plucked the whetstone out of the front pocket to sharpen it with, plopping down on the edge of the bed. He watched Sam sidelong, in between setting the knife up for a drag across the rock.

_Man, he looks rough. Better get him to eat something tonight._

"I'm not really hungry," Sam responded. "My stomach is still... bad." He sprayed the cleaner on the carpet, working it in.

Dean stopped and stared at him flat out, pausing with the blade halfway over the silica.

"...what'd you say?"

"I'm still nauseous," he said, not looking up from the carpet. "I don't really feel like eating right now."

_Fuckin' A._

Dean put on a ten gallon smile. "...didn't say anything about eatin', Sam."

Dean felt that familiar queasy uneasiness that came up whenever Sam pulled some new superpower out of his ass. Maybe it was just a coincidence... He frowned down at his sharpener as he pulled the knife the rest of the way across.

Sam paused and frowned. He sat up straighter, looking over his shoulder at his brother. "Yeah you did. I heard you. You just said that you were going to try and get me to eat tonight, right?"

Wasn't like this was new. Not really. He'd already been in Sam's head. And... Sam had found the way to his. Where was a padlock for that door when he needed it?

Dean drew it out as he sat the knife down next to him, slowly.

"Nooo... That's what I was _thinkin'_ , Sammy." He didn't meet Sam’s eyes as he sat the sharpener down, too, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do about this.

 _This is gonna go downhill_ real _fast_.

Sam stared at him. 

He head that. He'd _heard_ Dean say 'This is gonna go downhill _real_ fast', but he'd been looking at him and his brother's lips hadn't moved.

' _That's what I was_ thinkin' _, Sammy._ '

The fact that Dean had called him 'Sammy' didn't even register. 

Oh this was such a bad time for this. This was the last stone, the one that cast him from 'emotional turmoil' to 'complete and utter emotional breakdown'. He looked forward again, his back still facing Dean.

It was another thing, another thing in his head that he didn't want. He shut his eyes tightly. A freak amongst freaks.

_No. No no no no no no no no no no no no._

He could not do this. _He could not do this_. Not right now. Tremors ran through his hunched shoulders, his head hung.

Dean kept his gaze on him, calm and steady, leaning against his hand. _Why am I always right?_ He was glad he'd caught the prelude to this, or god knew what Sam would be hearing him think. (He still got nauseous.) He kept his voice low and authoritative, hoping Sam would pull out a little. He had no idea what to do if he flipped his shit.

"Stay with me, man. This innit new."

"Fuck... fuck fuck _fuck_!" His voice rose as his body moved downwards, till his nose was just about brushing the carpet, and he could smell the vomit and cleaning fluid. It made his stomach roil, but there was nothing left to throw up. His hands gripped the hair near the back of his neck, forearms thrown over his head like he was expecting a tornado.

His breath hitched and he screamed. Not a yell, a scream. It was deep and pained and not at all like a girly scream or anything like that. It was the same pitch he'd yelled in when he'd thought Dean was dead in that basement, the same pitch as when he'd screamed for Jessica as Dean dragged him out of the burning building. Except this scream had no words, no outlet, and no chance of fading or fixing or healing. It all just came crashing down.

He just wanted to reach in and rip whatever it was in his head out.

Dean felt the noise pass through him, stirring a heartsick ache in his chest stronger than the nausea in his stomach. It sucked out loud. Here was Sam, falling apart, like in all those nightmares of Sam’s.

Dean wouldn’t have expected it, but it was easier, here. He'd gotten some practice in at this kind of situation, and he didn't have to defend himself emotionally from somebody screaming incoherently on the floor, even if the whole psychic thing freaked him the hell out.

Dean pushed himself off the bed and walked over, looked down at Sam a second, wincing at just how bad things looked. He crouched down next to him, sliding a hand over his bare back, moving the bottle of carpet cleaner out of the way and waiting to see if Sam would relax a little... Sniffing rug cleaner wasn't the best idea, and Dean was going to lug him out of that, but he wasn't sure if he'd meet with resistance.

Sam’s body remained tense, shuddering. A lot of the muscle that had made Sam such a powerful fighter was gone. If Dean had to make him move, there was no question who would win. But, Sam didn't fight. His body didn't relax, didn't go limp, but he didn't fight any movements of his brother's. In fact, it was questionable if Sam even knew Dean was there.

All Sam could think was how much better it would be if he were just _still asleep_. The nurse would be alive, and he would be blissfully unaware. He had no memories of his time in the dark, how much he had hated it -- all he could think was how much he just wanted unconsciousness, to just _not think_. Not hear. 

The muscles in his midsection jerked and spasmed, as if he were about to throw up again, but he didn't. It was just dry heaving. He was making unnamable noises, like groans. They sounded like the sounds some dying animal would make. It would almost be comical, if only it weren't so _not_. 

It was a horrible kind of noise to hear coming from your brother. Dean closed his eyes and let Sam’s dry heaves die down before he moved him, hauling him up halfway to his feet, pushing Sam's arm over his shoulder, so that they were both still bent over. He moved them a couple of feet and stretched his arm out and managed to tug the bed sheets down. At least with the muscle lost Sam wasn't as heavy as he could have been. Dean looked sideways at him and sighed. It was going to be a bitch to get him into bed. Cracking his neck and grinning to himself, he reached his free arm down and swept Sam's legs out from under him. Scoop!

Dean was extremely pleased with himself. 

The self-satisfaction saw him through the fact that the whole thing was _fucking distressing_.

He slid a knee up onto the bed, lugged up the other. A lighter Sam didn't make for a wieldier Sam. With some doing he managed to get himself turned around to lay the heaving, shuddering younger Winchester down with his head on the pillows. Score!

Dean looked at Sam soberly, kneeling there beside him, a hand resting on his upper arm. 

Sam was aware he wasn’t supporting his own weight, that he was being lifted. He felt his head connect with a pillow and panic coursed through him. His long fingers fisted in the cloth of Dean's shirt, clutching it in a death grip.

"If I sleep, you'll die," he said, which, had he been somewhat more stable, he would have realized was a somewhat silly thing to say, but Dean could tell by the look in Sam's eyes that Sam absolutely believed it. 

Dean was trying to look after him: so if Sam slept, he'd wake up with Dean on the ceiling, just like everyone else.

Dean gave Sam’s arm a squeeze and looked down at him skeptically with half a smile. What he said could have been teasing, but he kept it a little quieter than that, a little slower:

"...annnd how many times have we slept in the same room?"

"It's different now," Sam said, low and rough. His arm shook, but he wouldn't let go of Dean. "One's a tragedy, two's a coincidence... but three? Three is a series. It's going to happen again. It's going to happen over and over again until I just give up."

"It may happen again. I got no promises." Dean didn't offer fake reassurance there, his expression level. "That's why we're gonna hunt this thing down, and we're gonna kill it." He reached over to pull the covers up, over Sam's waist and over his left thigh, not trying to shake Sam's hand off.

Sam laughed, and it was loud and sick. 

"We keep saying that..." He felt the covers come up his body. "But people just keep dying."

Dean's expression didn't budge.

"They won't stop dyin' if you roll over and give up. Mebbie you won't have'ta know'em, but they'll still die."

"At this point I'd be willing to settle for that..." Sam smiled hopelessly.

Dean smiled a little, chuckled through his nose, ducked his head a minute... then looked at Sam real hard.

"Nobody's holdin' you here, Sam. You wanna mend up and take that junkheap car off my hands? It's yours."

Sam's hand tightened in Dean's shirt. 

"...not now. Don't say stuff like that now. I'll do it, and I'll regret it and end up in some ditch somewhere. I can't..." He covered his face with his free hand. "Right now I'm just having so much trouble trying to _keep breathing_..."

Dean felt a whole lot of things, hearing his little brother talk like that. Felt them, but didn't think about them, didn't want to deal with the reality of Sam beaten down and giving out.

"...whatta you want me to do, man?"

Sam shook his head slowly, and had no words. He didn't even know what _he_ could do, let alone someone else. He could feel his brother's want to help him, but he had no words to give. 

The best he could do was shift incrementally closer, his forehead touching Dean's knee. His hands didn't move -- one over his face, the other in his brother's shirt. He felt some wetness just around his eyelashes, and he hoped that maybe he could somehow manage to cry.

Sam + crying = ....Dean wasn't going to do that math. He could see Sam's eyes a little red, a little damp. It was just a stupid nightmare, Dean reminded himself. Not Sam's nightmare: his. And Sam right now, this real Sam, he needed support. Needed a big brother to lean on, maybe. 

_Hell, Sammy, yer killin' me._

Dean was dangerously close to cuddling.

Sam made a strange gagging sound, like his breath had gotten caught in his throat, and shifted back a bit, his hand uncurling from Dean's shirt. 

He knew that Dean hadn't said that out loud. He knew it was a thought. _God._ He was hearing people's thoughts. And on top of that, the phrase 'you're killing me' wasn't so hot with Sam at the moment. He shifted back until they were parted completely, and he curled his ridiculously long arms against his own chest.

It took Dean a few seconds to figure out what was going on, and a couple more to even remember what he'd been thinking. 

"...you're gonna get stuff outta context -- obviously."

He scratched behind his ear uncomfortably. _I have to watch what I think now? That's gonna be a hoot._ Oh, it was fine right now. Right at this minute. But what about... and...

...

Dean did his best to derail his train of thought before it went anywhere it shouldn't. Hugging up to Sam didn’t look like an option, anymore.

Sam shook his head a little, but it didn't seem to be in response to anything in particular. He shut his eyes and tried to will it all away. But he wasn't asleep. He refused to sleep. 

Dean propped the other pillow up vertically and scooched around to lean back against it. He pulled the covers up to his waist, up to Sam's shoulder. It was cool. He could sit. They could have a nice little sit together until Sam fell asleep -- probably to have terrible nightmares, but maybe Dean would take a nap, too, see what happened. He folded his hands over his chest.

\----

John had always been a light sleeper. He had been one ever since his first days in the military, when he had learned all the wonderful, sometimes life threatening pranks that the boys liked to play on one another in the barracks. Once he’d started hunting, the old habit served him well. It was a habit he instilled in his boys for their safety. However, he could still sneak circles around the both of them.

The next time that Dean woke from the light doze he hadn’t even noticed himself slipping into, he felt a shock of adrenaline jolt through his system as he recognized how much had changed in the room. (His knife was on the edge of the other bed, feet away, and not beneath his pillow.) John was on the other side of him, sitting on the bed. Sam’s head had been carefully laid on a folded blanket over his father’s lap, and said father had a basin of cool water and a washcloth that he was carefully moving over his son’s face. It was what he had done for both of them when they were small, when they had fevers or colds or flesh wounds. John said it was comforting, but Sam had always said it was weird. Now, the youngest Winchester’s eyes were shut, and for once he was accepting his father’s concern without comment. In fact, he seemed almost on the verge of sleep, though he was still fighting it. 

John was silent, but he had been crying. It was a private moment for him. He folded the washcloth after dipping it in the basin one last time and wringing it out, and placed it carefully over Sam’s eyes.

Even if Dean recognized what was going on, it was a sharp reminder of how much more he still had to learn about the family business. Dean watched his father beneath half-lidded eyes. He was sure John had noticed him stirring, even though he hadn’t moved, but he didn’t want to rouse Sam… No, that wasn’t it; he didn’t want to interrupt the two of them. 

Dean felt a sick sort of ache across his chest. He recognized he was jealous. What kind of thing was that to feel at a time like this? He was relieved, too -- yeah, Sam was getting the care he needed, but not from him. Dean had been about as useful as a brick to the head. It was a selfish, asshole thing to think on. Dean tried to let it go without dwelling on it too much. At least, until Sam got to sleep. He closed his eyes and wallowed in the hung over sensation of leftover daytime sleep.

Sam shook his head a little.

“Mn….no.”

“What?” John said quietly. “What is it?”

“I’m not going to go to sleep,” Sam muttered, shifting slowly. John sighed.

“Alright, alright…Get some water down though, alright?” Their father reached over to the bedside to his right, just behind him. There was a small motel cup of water. In one smooth move, he picked up a small white tablet that he had obviously put there previously, expecting this, and dropped it into the cup. He picked up the cup, swilling it around quickly, then lifted Sam’s head and placing the edge of the cup against his lower lip. His youngest son drank it slowly. When Sam was finished, John set Sam’s head back down, putting the cup back on the end table. He dabbed again at the boy’s cheeks, refreshed the water in the cloth, and set it down again over Sam’s eyes.

“…then just rest,” their father said, and waited for the sedative to take effect.

Dean was impressed when he looked again and Sam was sleeping. It showed on his face. That John drugged Sam up wasn’t his first thought. After all, it hadn’t taken drugs for his father to get his brother quietly compliant up to that point. 

John stayed there, brushing his hand over Sam’s hair (too long -- oh the arguments they’d had about hair cuts, back in the day), watching the expressions on his son’s face as he slowly began to fade out from consciousness and into sleep. Once he was sure that Sam was well into slumber, John shifted back and set him down on the bed fully. 

He stood up, moving to pull the covers up over his son. He glanced over at his eldest, the tear tracks mostly dried on his face, but he didn’t bother to wipe at them or hide a thing. He wore them the same way he wore scars, like some part of him that he was neither ashamed nor proud of. Tears were as much a part of life as blood and semen. As much as gun oil and gasoline. 

“It’ll keep him down for two or three hours regardless of noise or light. After that we have to tiptoe. We keep him down for eight hours at the least – just because he’s been in a coma doesn’t necessarily mean he’s had any rest.”

Dean made a face that mouthed ‘Ohh’ as comprehension dawned. He smirked and edged his way out from under the covers. Note to self: in case of emergency, drug Sam. 

Dean didn’t have his dad’s easy way with crying. Which was almost funny, seeing how Dean was _great_ with blood and semen. It was different than saying he didn’t cry easily. He wanted to. He got red-eyed, teared up, felt his throat tighten, felt his face get hot... Then he wiped his eyes and held it back and didn’t go there. He couldn’t, for the same reason he had to hold back his emotions with Sam. If somebody got in the door with him that far, Dean was done for. 

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t want to get close to Sam, be incrementally more comforting than a stone. It was that everything he knew to do for him was a memory of a time long past, when spooning in bed was a comforting and protective gesture between the two of them and not something Dean saved for fast Waffle House waitresses. That kind of thing wouldn’t exactly fly anymore, for a lot of reasons. 

Still, there had been a time. Once. 

It was hard for Sam to think about his life before running away -- so much of it was incredibly difficult for him, so much of it a struggle. But that wasn’t. His childhood, when he and Dean were small enough and innocent enough to twist into one shape, Sam’s small arms curled against his own chest, his brother’s arms wrapped around him from behind, holding him securely. There was a point, of course, when Dean just got too old for such a thing, and a couple years later, Sam became much the same. Still, it was a memory of comfort for Sam.

John moved to the other bed (his bed, Sam and Dean on Dean’s bed). He sat back, taking a moment to breathe.

Dean swung his legs over the edge of his own bed, sitting across from him, hands on his splayed knees, looking at the floor. He was silent for a couple, letting John catch up with himself. He looked up after a little quiet, ready to report.

John looked over at his eldest. 

“Anything I need to know?” he asked. He was tired. He had figured out most of what had happened. Dean had found Sam. Right now he just needed to know if there was anything important to relate.

“’called my cell. Not sure how he got my number. Probably called in a contact, though.”

Dean didn’t think it was a trap, at this point. He’d been wide open in the alley, and nothing had sprung. If someone had wanted to take him out it would’ve been easy, with a disabled Sam to protect. The demons had been pretty direct in their methods, so far: corner the Winchesters and beat the shit out of them, nothing fancy. Even so, John’s paranoid fact checking couldn’t hurt.

John nodded slowly.

“Checked out the other patients that died, and the nurses -- nothing. Nothing on them.” He rubbed his scruffy chin slowly. “There were the usual things, but nothing abnormal. The only abnormal thing in their lives was--” The oldest of the Winchester’s looked over at his children’s bed. “--Sam.” He was looking at Sam specifically. 

Dean followed John’s gaze to his sleeping brother. He scratched the back of his neck, expression grave. He looked back to his father, meeting his eyes. “You gotten any leads on what that ritual is? What it means?” 

The nurse still didn’t fit any pattern Dean could make out.

“I’ve spent my time researching the demon, its patterns, its whereabouts…not to mention all the jobs in between. The ritual, as far as I was concerned, was part of its pattern of behavior. The same ways a shtriga sucks out the life of a child to live, the same way a vampire drinks blood.” He lowered his hand from his chin. “In all previous circumstances, that’s what this demon appeared to do. Sam’s the first example of the phenomenon, that I know of, to have it happen to him multiple times.” He paused, his eyes still on his youngest. “…There’s something more to it.”

“At the shack… he said he had plans. ‘Plans for all the kids like Sam’.” Dean didn’t know if John had heard it, being possessed and all. He looked ahead, eyes unfocused, trying to work it out. “…but the black eyed demons aren’t too careful with him.”

John sighed out, shaking his head slowly. 

“That’s our priority, now. Finding out what this demon wants. What it wants with those kids. What it wants with Sam.” He pushed himself up, moving towards the bathroom. “I want you to take Sam out of the way. Somewhere that’s safe.” Normally, John Winchester made his kids keep trooping on, unless their intestines were spilling out, but for reasons unspoken, he was making his decisions differently this time.

Dean watched him go.

“Disappear for awhile…?” He turned the idea over, because it was new, it was different – something they hadn’t tried. Together or apart, Dean and John had always kept at what they did, but what they did made ripples. But Sam needed a break, he needed to heal… Staying in one place and not doing what he did would be hard on Dean, even for a month or two. Three. Man, how long would Sam need? Not only that, but the names on the cards and IDs would have to match, and they couldn’t make a lot of charges from one place, making fraud a little harder. Still, Dean knew he could get by alright on hustling and gambling. Maybe some… day labor or something in there. ( _Man,_ work _…?_ ) “…sure. I can handle that.”

He looked over his shoulder, back at Sam’s sleeping face.

\----

Sam woke up early in the morning. He didn’t freak out, but John offered him another glass of water. Sam was a smart boy; more than that, he was perceptive. On a normal day he would have figured out his father’s trick before John had even gotten him to drink the first glass. But Sam was out of it, and he drank without complaint. He slept again, for another four hours, while Dean and John packed and discussed arrangements. It would be a place that Bobby owned -- near to where he lived, relatively: fifty or so miles. A small place, secluded, somewhere safe.

Sam woke silent and groggy. It took him awhile to come around, normal for somebody drugged. He sat up in bed, frowning and rubbing at his face. John glanced over at him, keeping an eye on his youngest carefully.

“Dad,” Sam muttered, some ten minutes later.

“What?” John frowned, looking up and paying full attention to Sam.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, looking to his father to have all the answers.

“I don’t know. Not yet. Give me time, son.”

Sam licked his lips, nodding mutely.

Dean was hanging out in the bathroom tossing the towels over his arms and collecting the extra shampoos and soaps. _A whole towel set! Awesome._ They had it made. He headed over to his stuff and started packing it away.

“Dad’s gonna look into it. You and me are gonna lay low until we get you back in shape.”

“Lay low?” Sam frowned, his halves at war in him. His stubborn, independent self that needed revenge, that needed to be a part of this, and refused to be underestimated. But the other half wanted to crawl into a hole and close his eyes and never wake up again. It was hard to say what he really wanted. “I…”

“Don’t argue, Sam,” their father said, in his usual authoritative tone, the one that always riled Sam up. He tried to tone it down some. “…listen. Just take some time. You just came out of a coma. You’ve got some injuries to look after, but more importantly, you got some atrophy to work off. You’ll be more useful when you’re together again.”

“…okay,” Sam said finally, somewhat warily, but in the end, he was just too tired and out of it to truly argue. “Okay.”

“Right.” John cleared his throat. “Well, then you best be on your way. Got you a shirt; Dean’s packed everything up.”

Dean slung his two bags onto his shoulders. He flashed Sam a smile, not big or cocky, raised his brows like ‘ _Yeah, that’s me_.’ For Dean, it was very low key. He looked around the hotel room, checking if there was anything else he wanted to take with him. … Nah, it’d be hard to get the TV out. (He gave it a long look, anyway.) Maybe there would be a TV there, already.

A small smile graced Sam’s face as he watched his brother steal from the motel. There were childhood memories in that. Somehow, it made things a less immediate; like that pressure on his chest lessened just a little.

Sam pulled his shirt on, watching the rest of his family move around the hotel room, and then walked downstairs in his brother’s shoes (they had just about the same shoe size), to the clunker. He paused before getting in.

“Dad, are you sure about this?” He asked, looking over at his father.

“I’m gonna find out what’s going on with you, Sammy. Don’t worry.” Even his words of comfort came out stern. ‘Don’t worry’ wasn’t a wish, but a command. Somehow though, that familiarity was more comforting to Sam than anything.

Sam knew that any words would lead into an argument, so finally he just nodded, and slowly got into the car.

Dean opened driver’s side back door and tossed the bags in. He shared a look with his father, and said goodbye with a nod. He slid into the driver’s seat, hauling the door shut beside him. He the ignition key up, gave the key ring a jingle, like sending up a prayer, stuck the key in the ignition, and pressed it forward. There was no mental cussing this time. The engine rolled over submissively. Dean’s whole mood brightened with that. He looked pleased with himself, like it was something he did. He checked his shoulder and rolled the car backwards out of the parking space. 

Sam settled back into the passenger’s seat, laying his head back against the headrest. Well, at least this thing had a headrest, unlike the Impala (God rest her). He looked over at Dean as they began to drive away, but not back at their oft-absent father. He assumed (hoped), that now, he’d be contactable. Even Sam had to admit that he and John were better as family distantly than in the same room. 

“So…” the younger man said slowly, still groggy from the drug. “Where are we headed?”

Dean looked Sam’s way. “Middle of Nowhere, South Dakota,” he announced, with some misplaced sort of pride. “If the car makes it that far.”

“Not quite the car the Chevy was, mm?” He murmured sleepily. He took a slow, deep breath. Apparently, despite his wakeful state, the drug was still running strong in his system. He shut his eyes for a long while, before stirring to speak again. “No Motörhead?”

“No car radio. Just the sweet sound of her loose exhaust pipe.”

The car radio did a lot to keep them sane on the road when their legs were cramping and each other’s company would otherwise be wearing thin. Dean guessed it wouldn’t matter, soon. They wouldn’t be on the road for awhile.

“Mm…” Sam responded, distantly. After awhile he shifted down further, sleep clawing at the edges of his vision. “Tell me when you want me to drive…” He said, before drifting to sleep. Whatever he said, he probably wouldn’t be in any condition to drive soon. He slept, while not deeply, at least decently, for the first few hours of the drive.

Dean didn’t wake him. He put his sunglasses on around midday, sang quietly to himself, patting rhythms against the steering wheel, and pulled off for gas when his legs started cramping up. He filled up the tank and loaded up on soda and snack food to keep him fueled for the all day drive. He didn’t intend to stay in a hotel again, leave a paper trail. If they were going to be stationary, they couldn’t take a risk like that. So it was as much road as he could cover before he had to pass out somewhere.

Sam woke up somewhere in the middle of Colorado and began a two hour long crusade to do his fair share of the driving. Eventually resigning to the fact that his motor control was shot, he gave up and sat back in his seat, watching the last of the light fade on the horizon and the countryside turn dark. He didn’t have the disposition to make witty or engaging banter at the moment. Mostly he was just a lump at the other end of the seat. 

So, Dean had to make the trip sans music and sans conversation. Still, Dean was glad to see Sam willing to put up a fight over something. Glad, but not moved enough to give in. He had a few choice thoughts in the course of Sam’s quest for the wheel… but nothing worse than he went on and said out loud. The countryside rolled by, illuminated in the headlight’s white cones. Eventually, Dean’s roster of songs to sing to himself, aloud and in his head, began to run thin, and his thoughts, meandering here and there before, began to wander.

 _South Dakota. I wonder what the girls are like in South Dakota …heh… pretty much the same as everywhere. I need some pussy before I-- Damn. I bet Sam can fuckin’ hear me-- you hear that, Sam? Your brother’s gettin’_ laid _as soon as--…Dude, how’m I supposed to masturbate like this? This blows_ goats _. We gotta fix this. I gotta go ‘roud at least once, twice a day. …… Alright, I gotta think about something else, about…cheese. How many types of cheese do I know? Weee’ve got Chedder, American, Swiss… Parmesan… Pepperjack… … Monteray Jack………_ French _Cheese…_

Dean’s expression remained as impassive as it usually did when he drove in silence, his eyes on the road.

Sam heard the thoughts drift through him, and the pure, unadulterated _Deanness_ of them just made him want to laugh. The idea that he was hearing people's _thoughts_ though? Definitely cancelled that notion out. No laughter. Not for awhile.

But if he had to listen to anyone's thoughts, it would have to be Dean’s. Dean, who he knew better than anyone in the world. Who's thoughts were comforting, like an old blanket. He truly believed there was nothing about Dean that could surprise him. 

He shut his eyes and tried not to listen to them, though they drifted in of their own accord.

Dean ran out of types of cheese shortly after "French:" _cheesecake, cream cheese... sour cream... Hell. Dad's gone again._ He exhaled slowly through his nose, like venting steam, almost imperceptible. _I can't believe those bastards got my car. If we break down on the side of the road we're stayin' where we land. There's no way I'm puttin' money into this thing. I'd rather walk. It looks so freakin' lame._

"Gorgonzola," Sam muttered, looking out the window at the passing wilderness of the north of America. Trees. Tall trees. Lots of tall trees. That about summed it up, really.

"What?" Dean glanced over at him. It took him a few seconds to place it. "Oh. Yeah. Gorgonzola." _Whatta you put_ that _in...?_

"You don't put it _in_ things. It's just a cheese. It goes on crackers." Sam shrugged a little, his eyes not leaving the passenger side window he was half leaned against. "Like blue cheese, and Brie." 

_Brie...?_ "You kiddin'? You put blue cheese in stuff. Hamburgers. Hotwing dip. Can't believe I forgot that one." He snapped his fingers and wagged the pointer towards Sam. _Point for you._

Sam rolled his eyes a little. "Okay, you put _blue cheese_ in things. I guess, theoretically, you could put Brie and gorgonzola in things too."

"Only pansies put their cheese on 'crackers'."

True fact. Men melted their cheese on something manly, something made of dead cow. Or dead chicken. Or grease.

Sam grunted. "Fine. I'm a pansy. But cheese can still go on crackers."

This was the most surreal car conversation they'd ever had.

"Think of something more interesting than cheese."

Dean lifted his eyebrows, shot a grin Sam's way.

"I _was_ thinkin' of something a _lot_ more interesting cheese." He settled his eyes back on the road, making a face as he turned something over wordlessly. They could go back to that topic. He didn't mind. "...we gotta work on this, Obi-Wan. Priority. Dean needs Dean time." 

"Fair," Sam said. He knew he'd hate the idea of someone in his head. Though, once again, if he had to pick someone, it'd be Dean. Dean knew what he was thinking a lot of the time anyways. "Just don't know _how_ though." He would turn this thing off in an _instant_ if he only knew how.

"Let's hope it's 'practice'." If it wasn't, it wouldn't be Sam's fault. Dean wasn't comfortable with that option. Nope. He wasn't comfortable with it, at all. But... it wasn't Sam's fault. Unfortunate circumstance. "Took a few days for you to walk into my head, at the hospital."

For once, Sam lifted his head, looking over at Dean curiously. "What're you talking about?"

Dean's brow furrowed, looking out in the distance ahead. "What, you don't remember any of that?" His gaze flickered towards Sam a brief moment. "Yeah. This stuff started when you went comatose."

He shook his head a bit, looking forward. "I remember...I remember you bleeding. I remember being ready to shoot, and you-..." He didn't finish that thought. The thought that told him the only reason he hadn't shot his own father had been because Dean had been begging him not to, and he couldn't bear the chasm that would be snapped in between them if he pulled the trigger. "I remember driving, and... Latin, weirdly enough, but I guess you did say something about an exorcism. I don't remember the accident, or anything right afterwards, but I remember the Latin." He shrugged helplessly - he guessed that was the geek boy part of him. "And after that, just... darkness. And then fire." He looked back at Dean. "And that's it." He paused a moment, then inquired. "So what happened? With the whole... coma thing?" He didn't want to say anything that made it sound as freaky and bizarre as it surely was.

"It's not as clear as it was a couple months ago. You were havin' nightmares. Stuck in your head. I started gettin' stuck in there, too -- every time I slept. Some freaky-weird stuff. You got it under control. Demons caught up. We had to move out. Move you. It stopped when I got further away."

Dean seemed to still be thinking about it, like he was turning over all the things he could say, but only one word drifted to the surface in the static: _Jess..._

Sam's back went rigid. He sat up. "Jess?" He looked... sad -- hopeful, at the same time. It was that kicked puppy dog look he tended to get when he was talking people out of whatever-it-was he and Dean wanted or needed. He didn't pull it intentionally. Jess's name just tended to get him there. "What about her?"

"Hunh?" Dean stirred himself out of his thoughts. He didn't look at Sam, at that puppy expression, although he recognized it out of the corner of his eye. It would've been too much. _What'm I supposed t' say...?_ "She was there. Saved my ass. Don't think she was part of the scenery."

Sam sat back slowly. "Oh..." He didn't seem surprised. Not like he should have, anyways. He paused, still looking forward, out the windshield. "I guess... that makes sense. I've seen her before... I think she's..." He looked down. "I dunno. I think she's around." He glanced at Dean. "Do you think that's wrong? Unhealthy, I mean. Do you think I'm trying to see what isn't there?" he asked, like he used to when he was little, like whatever Dean said next would be True with a capital T, as if God himself had spoken and decreed it so. 

Dean dealt with the supernatural everyday, but that didn't mean some things weren't cheesy. Vampires. He'd fought those and they were dead serious and the idea of vampires was _still_ funny. Girlfriend guardian spirits were on up there. Didn't change the facts.

"Like I said, she saved my ass. Yours, too, maybe. I owe her one." Yeah, Sam’s girlfriend was around. Still dead, but around. Dean shook his head. "Makin' weddin' plans? _That_ 'd be unhealthy. Didn't seem real human, anymore."

Sam nodded, scooting down in the passenger's seat. "Yeah... I thought as much." He shut his eyes though, looking surprisingly zen about the whole thing -- but it wouldn't be far fetched to assume the man still in shock. "At least I know I'm not crazy." He looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "Well...not crazier."

Dean smirked at that, still watching the darkness ahead. "We're all crazy, Sam." _Pre-requisite for the job._ "...guess we oughta find a side road or somethin'. No overnights in Colorado, right?" Last thing he wanted was a ticket on his ugly, un-insured car. About half the states allowed overnight parking. _Yeah... No, no overnights in Colorado._

Normally they might stay in a motel. This wasn't really 'normally'. Planning to stay in one place... that wasn't normal at all.

“Yeah…Yeah.” Sam nodded, resting his head back against the head rest. “It’s gonna be a chore, sleeping in this thing.” He glanced around the seats of the car -- they weren’t long and uninterrupted, like the Impala’s seats. The gear shift was between the passenger’s seat and the driver’s.

Dean scoffed. “Everything about this piece of junk is a chore.” It was hard to adjust from spending every day, day in and day out, with his one true love to being stuck with this horse-toothed, shabby trollop.

Sam smirked a little, watching the trees pass them by until they came to a convenient exit. “We could always fix it up a little. We’ll have the time, out in the middle of nowhere.”

Dean didn’t look too thrilled about that, but he went along with it grudgingly. “It is a GT. Guess it has some potential.” He checked the road sign looming up out of the dark, two miles until the next exit. ‘ _want my_ car _back_.

Sam smirked a bit, hearing that thought. Dean’s love affair with the Impala.

They pulled off on the exit, and Sam bothered to notice just how late it really was. They found a small side road that they could park on, and Sam pushed himself up when the car came to a stop and Dean turned the engine off. “So. Sleeping arrangements?”

“Arrangements?” Dean chuckled. “We’ve got three options: driver’s seat, passenger’s seat, backseat. I’ve got driver’s seat. You can go wild.” 

He unbuckled his seatbelt and pulled the handle to recline the seat. It didn’t budge. He clenches his teeth and gave it another tug. “…Nevermind. Two options.”

Sam huffed a small laugh.

“Take the backseat. I can sleep here.” He reclined the passenger’s seat – it didn’t go back more than a few inches, but it was enough.

Dean picked up his sunglasses and let himself out the driver’s side door, tucking the keys in his pocket. He climbed into the back, making a couple grunting noises while he made himself comfortable. The position he got into didn’t necessarily _look_ comfortable. He slid his sunglasses on so he wouldn’t wake up with the sun. 

The night wasn’t restful, given their uncomfortable circumstances, but the next day would carry them to their new ‘home’.


	5. Chapter 5

The Winchester's temporary residence turned out to be a cabin; an old lodge on Bobby’s property. It was… well, a fixer-upper: a one room house, with one double bed (not even a queen), and an old kitchenette area. There was a fireplace, and no sink or any other form of indoor plumping. There was a water pump outside, and an outhouse. Everything was covered in dust and spider webs. Other than that, there were the forests of South Dakota.

Dean looked the place over critically. _Don’t know what I was expecting_. When he was satisfied with his survey, he dropped his bags in the middle of the room, a smile spreading across his lips. “Home sweet home.” He wandered over to inspect the kitchenette, running his hand along the edge of its metal surface. How many times had he stood in front of one of these things? It brought back memories. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, his smile tilting into a smirk. “Ever learn how to cook, sweetheart?”

Sam rolled his eyes at the nickname. “I got decent at it.” He shrugged. Dean had always been the cook in their family -- he was far better at it than Sam. Still, college had occurred, and cooking had been a necessary skill to acquire. Sam dropped his bag near Dean’s, settling himself on the edge of the bed. “So… this’ll be interesting.” He looked around the dusty room.

“Not the word I’d pick.” He drummed his fingers against the kitchenette top as he turned away. Small cabin. Small, small cabin. “I think I’m gonna check out that outhouse.” He tucked his fingers in his belt loops and moseyed past Sam, outside and down the two steps into the yard. It was a short walk to the outhouse. Dean glanced back at the cabin as he let himself in. He swatted a couple of cobwebs out of the way and unzipped his jeans. Took a piss. While he waited, thought loudly, _**Can you hear me out here?**_ It was a minute or two before he returned to the cabin.

“Yes,” was the first thing that Sam said when Dean reentered the cabin. It seemed that he could hear Dean just as well regardless of distance -- he didn’t really know what to make of that. He paused. “How was the outhouse?”

Dean’s shoulders rose in a lazy shrug, he lifted a brow at Sam. 

“Crowded.” _Can hear me pretty far, huh? Not great right now. Can sure use it on hunts, though._ That’d give them an edge few monsters would expect. Dean flipped on the light switch to check the naked bulb in the ceiling fixture. It was out. He lugged a wooden chair over and climbed on the seat, tightened the bulb a little and tapped on it. It flickered to life with an electronic buzz.

Sam gazed up at the light as Dean fiddled with it. “Fun,” Sam muttered, not as jazzed on this Dean appeared to be. Even with the advantages it would give them on hunts (hunts which Sam was not as gung-ho on as Dean was); he still wished it would all just go away. “Sorry,” he said clearly, with a small shrug. “About the invasion of privacy thing.”

“Not much you can do.” Dean stepped off the chair and pushed it back under the table. “It sucks. But, we can make it work for us.”

Sam nodded faintly, shifting backwards on the bed. He lay down, enjoying the feeling of actually getting fully horizontal. “I’m going to sleep for a while -- then I guess we should go shopping for supplies?”

“Okay. Sure. I’ll check around and see what this place needs.” _And by that_ … Dean’s thought trailed off and he flashed a smile. He wouldn’t mind if Sam took some downtime. He had a lot to think about. On his own. Alone. It was tough, blowing stray thoughts off all day. There were other things to take care of, too.

It didn’t take too long for Sam to fall asleep. He was still pretty burned out from the emotionally charged events surrounding his waking from his coma, and he hadn’t rested well in the car.

_I like having sex with sheep. Hot, wooly sheep sex._

When Sam didn’t react, Dean sighed like he’d been holding his breath for hours. 

How was he supposed to work like this? Dad had left them again, and this time Dean let him go. It was necessary, they all saw it. But even if Dean was jealous of the way John had with Sam, he didn’t know if he could do the same things, if he needed to: calm Sam down, pet his hair, hold him. Not while Sam was all psychic and would know what was really going on with him, that underneath the cool exterior Dean might be just as upset or just as scared as the little brother he was trying to quiet down. People took the privacy of their own minds for granted. Dean built all his coping mechanisms with that idea assured.

When things were falling apart, if Sam was hurt, or if he was in danger, Dean wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it took, even if what it took was more intimacy, emotional or physical, than he might otherwise be comfortable with. But Sam’s new gift was dangerous. It messed up the way Dean lived, digging holes and burying his issues, only taking them out and looking at them in the quiet. With Sam like this, he could never be quiet. Not unless Sam was sleeping. There were no ‘passing thoughts.’

It was worse, because sometimes Dean’s passing thoughts weren’t fit for human consumption. He honestly believed he had sexualized every person he had ever met. Hot girls, hell yeah, but then there were the people he would never sleep with: old ladies, and biker guys, weird supernatural things, and even Sam. Sam most of all, because Dean was closest to him. 

It was alien for Dean to be in the same physical space with someone, day in and day out, have all his conversations with them, be naked around them, and not be sleeping with them; to be smelling them and not be touching them, or tasting them. Dean understood that he was oversexed (way, way oversexed), and it wasn’t anything to follow up, just habitual mental exercise. Dean didn’t go for men, as a rule, but Sam was extremely built; really, really well made. Who didn’t appreciate a body like that? Admire it, at least. It crossed the line into a crush; and maybe Dean still wanted to be close, still wanted to be physically and emotionally close like when they were little. But, as long as Sam was Sam, Dean’s brother, with the boundaries that entailed and the boundaries Sam kept, Dean didn’t have a problem. He had his mantra: _Not here. Not now. Not Sam._

The idea of Sam hearing sick shit like that dunked Dean in even more guilt over it than usual.

The thoughts haunted Dean as he moved around the cabin, checking for things that were broken, making mental notes of things they needed to stock. He broke the rock salt out and secured the house. When he was done and Sam was still asleep, he made his way down to the outhouse and he jacked himself off, his back against the wooden wall, the air stale and foul, daylight dim through the dirty window, his thoughts on a girl he’d met in Oklahoma a couple summers ago. Belly dancer. Keeping his mind off other things so immediate because of their chance for discovery was like saying “Don’t think about camels” -- but he managed, for the most part. He felt better after blissing out, calmer, more relaxed. Always did. Buddhist monks found their center in meditation and Dean found his center in thought-stealing, sexual action. He was ready to face whatever; for a little while, at least.

Sam didn’t dream anymore. He hadn’t dreamt in the hotel after he’d run away from the hospital, or when he’d slept in the car -- he thought those times were flukes. But he knew it wasn’t when he woke up some six hours later, feeling rested but with no memories of dreams, not of any kind. It wasn’t abnormal to not dream, now and again, but three times in a row was enough to convince Sam. He’d come to accept that when it came to him, coincidences did not occur. 

He lifted his head from the pillow, looking around the cabin without a sense of grogginess, letting out a slow breath. As of yet, he was unaware of the feelings Dean kept locked away, be they in relation to their parents, in relation to his own sense of freakishness, or the inappropriate thoughts about his younger brother.

Dean was sitting at the table, his feet up on the tabletop, balancing his chair back on two legs and half-dozing. He stirred when he saw Sam moving, eyes sliding to the side. He let the chair drop and swung his legs off the table, reached up and cracked his neck drowsily.

“So. What’s the news?” Sam sat up, yawning widely as he spoke.

“It’s Walmart time. We’ve got nothin’.”

“Excellent,” Sam said, smirking faintly. He shifted, getting out of bed. “Could use some more clothes.” All his clothes had been lost in the crash. While most of Dean’s wardrobe had been replaced in the past few months, Sam was pretty much borrowing stuff from his dad or brother. 

Dean pulled out his wallet and checked the billfold, flipping through the cash inside. They probably had enough between the money Dean usually carried and the money John had given him to cover the bases and still eat for another week. A television was looking unlikely. Man, he’d miss credit card fraud. He’d have to be careful hustling up money, too. Couldn’t run the same stuff by the same guys too many nights. He tucked the billfold away. “Let’s get rolling, then.”

Sam nodded, pushing himself up from the bed with his regular speed and strength, which was more than his weakened muscles could really handle. He winced, straining them a little, and he realized he’d have to monitor himself, to relearn how to use his body, and go slowly.

Dean considered making him stay and rest up, but it was important for Sam to get exercise. _Maybe he’ll wear himself out_ , he thought optimistically.

 _…goddamn it_. That was the kind of thought Dean had to watch. 

Sam gave him a _look_. 

Dean looked back at him suspiciously, body defensively rigid. “What? Don’t tell me you don’t think behind my back.”

"No. But I still have to give you a hard time over it." He got up, stretching slowly. "Little brother's prerogative, and all."

Dean rolled his eyes and let himself out the door, heading down to the car at a stroll without looking to see if Sam meant to catch up, thinking something that sounded like: _Fucking fuck_.

Dean was clearly _displeased_. He acted like he wasn't, but Sam could hear different. He didn't know what he thought about that. On the one hand, he'd always wanted Dean to open up to him more, share more with him, but on the other hand, he hadn't realized how much he depended on his brother's curtain -- the one that blocked off everything Dean was _really_ thinking when he said 'This doesn't freak me out'. 

In the end, though, Sam just had to swallow it down either way. It wasn't going to stop, whether he decided he wanted to know these things or not. He followed Dean to the car.

There were a string of disjointed thoughts that started off and ended abruptly, one after the other, until the cacophony segued into, _I'm cool. It's cool. Whatever._ Dean was sitting in the driver's seat, looking as impassive as usual, a hand resting on the top of the wheel of the car. It was hard. Real fucking hard. The things he wanted to think weren't positive. At all. Normally, he would've thought them and never said a word to Sam about any lingering displeasure.

Sam paused at the passenger side door. Dean sure was putting himself through some hell there. He felt guilty again, depriving his brother of his privacy like this. Sam liked his personal space -- even though Dean had walked through that personal space plenty of times, it was still, well. Sam's. Now though, he was invading the space that Dean needed. 

"Hey," he said, leaning his head in the door, looking over at Dean. "You know, if you wanted to, you could go by yourself. Give you some time to yourself."

Dean smirked. "...you sure you trust me to buy your groceries?" 

"Eh. You'll do. Besides, if you get the wrong things, I get to sigh dramatically and make you feel bad about it, so it's a win/win situation." Sam grinned faintly. He'd be bored here, and honestly, he'd like to get out and get his stuff, but he'd rather not if it meant his own brother had to be uncomfortable being around him.

"See you when I get back, then." _Don't know how this is gonna work_. The left side of Dean's face flinched. _I just keep makin’ this worse_. 

Dean felt sick to the stomach, but he wasn't that kind of person. Dean Winchester didn't do nervous vomiting. If there had ever been a moment he regretted having been born into the family he ended up with, it was probably this moment. He didn't even know if going to town would mute his thoughts from Sam. It wasn't exactly like he could relax. 

Sam stood back as Dean drove off, sighing heavily.

_Well._

_Fuck._

He just didn't know what to do. Keep his brother at arm's length, or just give in and accept that he was going to be hearing everything Dean thought from now on. It bothered him.

A lot of things were bothering him now, though. He put that one in the line and went back into the house. He dug around under the bed, finding a broom there, and a few (very old) cleaning supplies. He set about cleaning out the worst of the dust and cobwebs.

Dean came back a couple of hours later. It wasn't a short drive, but he had taken his time, on top of that. He came in the door loaded down in bags. His mood was better. Being away from Sam made him feel better, but... that was a problem, since he'd be shacked up with his little brother for the foreseeable future. The cabin he walked into was much improved over the one he'd left. "Looks good," he said as he went to set the bags on the table. He figured he ought to throw Sam a bone, because... damn, he just couldn't make promises that he'd think nice. Not to mention that Dean was Sam's only source of socialization now. Sam would get pretty miserable out here if Dean was going to be avoiding him all the time, even if it was for legitimate reasons.

Sam moved, taking some bags out of Dean's hands and placing them on the table. "Thanks. Thought I'd at least get started."

When the bags were safely delivered, Dean headed back out to the car to get another load. He'd managed to do a decent job of it. He hit some important bases: toilet paper, paper towels, soap, shampoo, cleaning supplies, new sheet set. There was junk food, and there was beer, but there was food that humans ate, too, some boxed, some canned, some of which could be combined with other food to produce legitimate results. Dean plucked a beer out and knocked the top off on the edge of the table, taking a swig and setting it on the surface of the kitchenette before he started putting things where they went. He wasn't avoiding talking to Sam. Not really. He just... wasn't sure what to say.

It didn't help that Sam couldn't come up with anything either. Instead, he settled into the routine of work. He helped Dean unpack, taking some of the cleaning items and wiping out the 1970’s refrigerator before placing the food items in there. 

At least they had electricity.

Towards the end of the process of unpacking Dean dug down into one of the bags and produced a pack of playing cards. He wagged them in display. "I figure if I can bluff you I can bluff anybody, right?"

Dean had the vague plan to earn some income through that kind of thing. It was job training.

Sam's brow furrowed. "Bluff? Why?" He shook his head in confusion. 

Dean looked back at him, just as confused. "Where do you think we're gonna get cash? Runnin' big scams and stayin' in one place is askin' for trouble."

"So you're gonna play... poker?" He looked thoroughly confused. _Why not just get a_ job _?_

"Not much a legally dead guy can do. Play poker. Hustle pool. I figure I can do day labor or somethin' when I figure out how that goes down around here." Dean shrugged. 

Sam nodded a bit, pulling out the new sheets for the bed -- the current ones were...musty. He stripped the bed, still speaking. "I can get a job."

"No offense, but if dad and I thought we could put you to work, we'd be out hunting."

Dean took a long sip of his beer. Sam needed to get his weight back, his muscle back -- back in fighting form. Time at a job was time away from that goal.

Sam frowned deeply. "So I'm just supposed to sit up here in this cabin all day for a few months?"

"No. You're supposed to get in shape: work out, pass out, work out a little more." Dean shelved away the last of the shopping items. "You're not under house arrest or anything. We can go to town. They even got one of those 'libraries'."

Sam was still frowning. There was so much wrong with that, Dean working all the time so that Sam could be up here working out -- okay, better than lazing around, but still not exactly helping out or anything. And the assumption that he needed to be back in top hunting shape again... He knew he needed to; he wanted his revenge, after all. At the same time, his rebellious streak flared up in him over the assumption. "Mm...." He finally said, having nothing else to add.

 _Thaaat's trouble_. Dean tipped his beer back and finished it off. He set it on the table, too comfortable off his feet to go start a trash bag, yet. He thought about having another beer in a wordless way. He might need one.

Wasn't like there was anything Sam could say to that. Not like that ever stopped Sam before. He liked to open his mouth whenever he damned well pleased, and, irritatingly enough, it almost always worked out for him, somehow.

But given the state of tension they already had to deal with, given all the trouble they already had to deal with, he decided that discretion was the better part of valor.

Dean pushed himself up from the table. He walked over and pulled a trash bag out of the box, worked his fingers into it, and shook it open. He dropped the beer bottle into it and set it down by the kitchenette. Note to self: _Trashcan_. "Think I'm gonna catch some shut-eye." He headed over towards the bed, stripping off his jacket as he walked.

Sam watched him move to the bed -- it was probably pretty good that they were sleeping on somewhat different schedules, seeing as the bed was pretty small. They had slept in the same bed for over half their lives, but it had been quite a few years since the last time that happened, and they had both grown a lot. Fitting in there would be interesting.

Of course, it eventually came to that point, once their schedules synced up, and they ended up stiffly on either side of the double bed, backs facing one another, their ankles brushing on occasion. Still, it didn't take too long to get into the rhythm of things.

\----

Living with Sam had been a chore for Dean since they got up to the cabin. Even before Sam had gone telepathic, Dean practiced a lot of self restraint, every day. He had to practice more, now, than ever before, and he wasn’t a guy to which restraint came easily. During the day he took the car and went to town and he worked, did some yard work, some lifting and carrying, easy jobs that didn't require any more than figuring out where people hung out to get picked up for day labor. He wasn't bringing in a lot of money, but as long as they had groceries they didn't need much else.

Sleeping in bed with Sam... that required a little self-restraint, too. With the actual work he'd been doing, he hadn't exactly been getting laid. With their sleep schedules matching up, he hadn't had a lot of quality time with his hand, either. The heat of Sam's body centimeters from his back, the brief, accidental brushes of skin... That kind of thing was Dean's _kind of thing_. He could've taken whatever perverse enjoyment and left it at that, but there was the thought reading now. It made going to bed a chore, itself.

At first Sam had no idea where the slight sexual overtones were coming from. Hell, at first, it was nothing. They slept in the same bed, normal as could be, if not somewhat awkward now that they were bigger. Then, just little things. Overtones. Slightly inappropriate thoughts that left Sam feeling confused. He brushed them off as random flashes as his brain was drifting to sleep, until their calves brushed again, and he realized the feelings were coming from Dean.

Great. Dean was fantasizing about big boobs right next to him, and he was getting the sexual overflow, or something, which didn't bode well, because Sam was becoming more and more aware of things as the days passed. Things like imagery to accompany thoughts, and feelings, strange and wave-like, that washed over him suddenly and left him just as fast.

It wasn't intentional. The thoughts weren't entertained as much as abided. But Dean was fantasizing as he drifted towards sleep, in flashes of half-nudity, ideas of kisses. There was no reason to struggle with them. They made him feel like shit enough, already, and he didn't know Sam's powers were progressing. There were memories enough. The memory of Sam holding him in the wake of that imaginary fire, the memory of their foreheads pressed together -- that intimacy that was enough in itself, only Dean wasn't capable of being that close in the waking world, not emotionally -- memories of Meg and Sarah's lips working Sam's... and Sam's naked body? That wasn't unfamiliar. Yeah, there were memories enough. Sickening, arousing memories. More than enough material to flicker through fleeting thoughts when Dean was way bellow his quota for orgasms.

Sam's eyes flickered open, dragged from the edges of sleep, that first night those thoughts came to him. He hesitantly glanced back, towards the other side of the bed, but then decided better of it and lay still. He pursed his lips slightly, and, for the first time, felt himself strain to catch more of those errant thoughts, curious as to why a naked him was floating through Dean’s head.

That first night, Dean was already falling asleep, and the images faded into dark quiet as he sunk into his subconscious mind. The second, Dean stayed up later than Sam. On the third night, when they lay in bed together, again, back to back with the night sounds of bugs and owls filtering in from beyond the cabin walls, Dean's thoughts drifted, Sam reached, and fell in.

( _Edgy disquiet, permeating everything. Self-revulsion. Drifting currents: warm, red, unfocused desire. The idea of Sam. The memory of Sam. The memory of skin. Needing and needing and needing. Need carved deep and jagged. Persistent craving: affection? affirmation? Underneath everything, the hollow ache of loneliness; the approaching darkness of sleep._ )

On that third night, the thoughts roused Sam from the half slumber he was falling into, and he blinked groggily, shifting slightly as he came to more, and then he was in Dean, in his thoughts and feelings, and he felt himself draw a breath of air deeply.

Beneath all his defenses, Dean looked little like the man he remained on the surface. He had spent long years crafting a rock hard exterior, a persona that could weather a tumultuous life. Sam had seen it slip, and heard their enemies speak of what lay beneath. Suddenly, he was in the midst of it and facing the extent.

Right now, with Sam at his back, Dean was very much aware of Sam, aware of all the things Sam wasn't to him, and how hard he had to control himself to still be the Dean Sam knew with Sam always at the edge of his thoughts. He was trapped under the idea of Sam, a place he put himself willingly because Sam needed him and he loved the bastard. The idea of Sam always came with a current of envy, of jealousy, of not being quite as good, of not being quite as deserving, but that paled in comparison to his need for Sam's presence, his support, because without him Dean was alone, a freak who didn't fit in anyplace, a human creature good for two things. The demon had been right. Dean needed more than anyone, and in the emptiness of unslaked desires conflicting passions grew confused, ran misdirected, until the need to be closer to Sam became the same thing as wanting to fuck him, because Dean didn't know any way but all or nothing... and right now -- always, as far as he intended -- it'd stay next to nothing.

Sam lay there in the dark of their cabin, in the sheets of their bed, and listened to all the horrible need, all the clawing envy, and, most of all, his big brother's desire for him. It made his stomach drop, with worry, with hurt, with guilt, and the knowledge that Dean would never let him be close enough to ease any of that. After all the times his brother had looked after him, Sam wasn't allowed to return the favor.

But another part of him was somewhat afraid of helping anyways -- afraid of somehow inadvertently encouraging that deviant want, accidentally making it worse.

He lifted a hand to cover his mouth from making a noise in the night, and shut his eyes.

Dean had no idea. He had no idea the next morning, where it was business as usual. It wasn't like he looked at Sam and wanted to hit it with him. It wasn't like that at all. The knowledge that his baser urges were inappropriate (to say the least) and the knowledge of exactly where he stood with Sam made their relationship effortless. It was only at night, going to sleep, feeling completely alone that Dean ever dwelled on anything. Normally he held it together with those one night conquests, girls he borrowed Space-for-Rent to vent his own isolation into. He knew this one girl, Keisha. He was almost in the door, but she was waffling. 

Sam, of course, knew he had to say something. Had to say something eventually. He was that type of person. He knew that if Dean heard him thinking things like that, Dean wouldn't press it. Dean wasn't a talking kind of guy. But Sam needed to _something_. His big brother had held him at night since before he could remember, fed him, read to him, protected him, loved him when one of their parents was dead and the other was terminally absent -- either physically or emotionally. Dean had always been there for him. Dean was, probably, the most important person in Sam's life; the person who'd shaped him to be who he was.

It was hard to think, then, that that person wanted to be with him in the most intimate of ways -- someone who shared his blood, someone who wanted to share more than that. Sam didn't even know where to begin to think on that. It was so beyond him that he couldn't even feel mortified or sickened. He was just... sort of blown away by it. 

He had no idea how to even open any of this, so he just put it out there, one evening, sitting at the table, hands on his coffee mug. 

"I love you, you know."

They'd been living there for just over six weeks, and the winter had most definitely set in.

Dean was kicking back, playing solitaire on his laptop, open beer beside it. He'd expected to be doing that for, oh, another thirty minutes, then maybe something of the bed persuasion. Sam saying something like that, just out of blue, sat off little alarm bells in his head: _Danger, Will Robinson_. Dean looked up over the top of the computer. "Random?"

"You're going to call me a girl's name, and play this off as nothing at all. I know." He looked down at the undrunk black coffee in the mug between his hands. "But even if you do, just listen to me, okay?" He paused then, as if waiting for Dean to say he would or wouldn't, but before Dean could speak Sam continued. "Sometimes you feel... I can feel how lonely you are. And you're my brother. If I'm not going to be there for you, who will? So I wanted you to know that I love you, and that I've never underappreciated the things that you've done for me."

Dean stared at him, his eyes squinting at the corners, a faint frown in his brow, fingers resting on the laptop's flat hand rest, left hand hanging at his side. His eyes almost slid away, though he caught himself, brought his focus back to Sam's eyes. A certain apprehension radiated off him, like he was waiting for more. After a minute he chuckled, shaking his head, smirked, rolling his eyes, gave Sam a look like Sam was crazy. "Thanks, Princess."

Damn right, Sam. That was _exactly_ what he was going to do. He looked back down at his game, tried to remember what he was about to do, still looked a little confused. Hey! This was sort of uncomfortable.

Sam's eyes flicked up. He didn't know if he should mention the other stuff. He suspected things would be easier for Dean if Sam slept on the floor, but he knew that Dean would get suspicious if he did that. 

Great. How was he supposed to help Dean when helping him just meant alienating him further? It was like Dean wanted affection, but if you tried to give him any, he just withdrew more. How fucked up was that? Not that Sam was a whole lot better. They were all pretty fucked.

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t want to let Sam in. But, Dean had had affection. Affection led to a world of hurt he didn't want to revisit. Just because he maybe desperately wanted someone to tell him everything would be okay, that they were there for him and he wasn't going to have to face life on his own, didn't mean that the idea of that actually happening _didn't_ scare him shitless. He'd always be waiting for the other shoe to drop, for that person to say 'Ha ha! That's a good one!' -- in Cassie's case, 'I think you should leave.' He'd be waiting to wake up and find dad gone without a word while he waited around for him to come back and John never called, or left any other sort of message. Affection brought you that kind of thing. Dean was happier playing solitaire.

Sam sighed.

"Dean...what do you want me to _do_?" he asked finally, hoping if it was more than a yes/no question he could get his brother to talk to him. "How can I make this... better?"

Dean's eyes stayed on the computer screen a little while more, reflecting bright boxes. He dragged and dropped a card or two. His thoughts had gone quiet, but it was a building kind of quiet. "Didn't know there was a problem," he said, but he swallowed in that way he did when he started feeling emotional. "Besides the obvious one, with you pokin' around my head." He glanced up again, and now he was totally expecting some sort of surprise attack.

Sam grimaced. "Believe me, I'd rather not be doing it this way -- I don't like invading your privacy. But sometimes I can feel the way you hurt, and it feels like a physical wound, man. And... and if this is the only way I'm gonna know about it, then I'm glad." He looked up from his coffee for the first time.

Dean pulled the lid of the laptop shut. The white light on his face slid into the yellow light of the bulb overhead. Emotion leaked off him again, a sick, sad feeling and frustration, too. He understood. He understood that he wasn't going to escape from this, because he was stuck in the cabin with Sam and he'd have to think about it sometime and Sam would know, even if Dean blew him off now. That killed him. It felt like defeat. Dean looked him down defiantly.

"I don't want help, Sammy." A smile. "It'd make _you_ feel better. Yeah, I bet. But where're you gonna be in two years? You'll be doin' your college graduate thing; I'll be killin' some evil bastard somewhere. We'll talk on the phone, maybe once a month. I'm startin' to accept that. Don't fuck it up."

Sam frowned and sighed.

"I don't know why it's so all or nothing with you. I want my own life, yeah -- doesn't mean I don't want you in it." He floundered for a moment, and then came up with an example. "Like you want me around, but not in your head, right? I never _wanted_ to leave and never come back. I wanted to go to college, learn, try something new... hell, I didn't even know if I'd like it." He leaned his elbows against the table. "Just because I want to be a lawyer doesn't mean I want you to feel like crap all the time. The two are, in fact, completely unrelated. Hell, I could have a house that you could come and rest at, heal up. I could be the lawyer that gets you out of legal trouble when you hunt. Brothers don't have to have the same jobs you know -- they're still brothers, still blood."

Dean leaned back in his chair as Sam talked at him, watching him with his jaw set and his eyes impassive, inaccessible. He closed his eyes as Sam finished talking, exhaled slowly, smiled again, laughed softly through his nose. "Sounds good when you say it." His eyes drifted open, but his gaze was still closed off. "It's easy for _you_. You're good for somethin' besides huntin'. You got friends. Dad loves the _hell_ outta ya. We get this pesky demon outta your life? You'll be set." A grin. He picked up the beer bottle, lifted it--cheers to that!-- and took a long drink. He looked at it thoughtfully a couple seconds before setting it back on the table. Wet his lips. "You tell me what I got besides you, and I'll talk about my feelin's till sun-up. Hell, we can give each other manicures."

Sam looked at him sadly, with the eyes he often had when Dean said such things, the ones that wanted so desperately wanted to help his brother, but it always came off as somewhat pitying. It wasn't pity of course -- he could never pity Dean, who was so strong, so confident. 

"...you could have whatever you wanted Dean. No demon has stopped you from killing it. No girls have wanted to stop you from getting into their pants. When you decide to do something, you've always succeeded. I honestly don't believe you couldn't have any life you wanted." He shut his eyes with a sigh and corrected his convoluted, double-negative sentence. "I honestly believe you could have any life you wanted."

Dean looked at him like ' _Plz_ ', pushed himself up from the table.

"I already _told_ y' what I wanted."

It wasn't what Sam wanted. Sam had said it. Dean had heard him loud and clear. He snagged the beer bottle up and finished the rest of it, walked over to drop it in the trash. _Bet Keisha's waitin' that bar tonight_. He wasn't feeling anything, not anything clear but the pressing need for space to clear his head. Company that wasn't Sam. He didn't really care if Sam came along or not. He could make his own space in the kind of situation he was looking for.

"So what choice are you giving me?" Sam stood up as well, lifting his arms. As always, he wasn't about to let it go that easy. "Give up the life I want or let my brother be utterly miserable? You _have_ me, Dean. I'm right here. And if I'm a few states away? I'm still _right here_." He let his arms fwump down at his sides. "I don't want to hunt. That doesn't translate into 'I don't want to be your brother'."

Dean didn't want to talk about it. As far as he was concerned, it was something to work out by himself; it had nothing to do with Sam. Only abstractly, once Sam drew the line. Dean suspected getting the emotion extracted from him might gratify Sam, but it tired _him_ out.

"Let it go, man."

" _Please_ ," he said, looking at his brother. It wasn't _about_ gratifying himself! It was about doing something for his brother for once, and even though Dean wanted him to shut up, he knew, logically, that would only leave everything just... buried, like normal.

Every time he'd always let Dean go. Always let him get away with a joke and a wave of the hand, never noticing that every time it just got worse. 

"We're... we're _brothers_ ," he finally said in desperation. Brothers had to help each other. Even younger ones. He couldn't just let Dean go off and sleep with some tramp and come back smelling of sex and pain. He wouldn't watch it get worse.

( _Regret. ~~Self-hatred.~~ Conflict._ )

Dean was ready to get in the car and go; ready to sleep with some tramps; ready for Sam to shut up; ready to have his defenses back in place. He couldn't move past it, though, not with Sam saying _Please_ with those eyes he had and hurting. Dean thought Sam was crazy to push it this far. He didn't know what Sam was looking for from him. 

"...whatta you want me to do? Cry?"

"I want--..." God, what did he want? He wanted to stop that cycle, that thing that kept going around and around in Dean's head. "I want you to depend on me, sometimes. I want you to not take everything on yourself and just make yourself feel like shit all the time." He rarely cursed, but now, he felt, it was appropriate. "...no matter what you think, I could never hate you, or not need you around." He knew, from Dean's more... raunchy thoughts, that those fears ever ever-present.

"Guess you haven't gotten that far inta my head yet," Dean said genially. 

Dean was good, though. He didn't let a stray thought slip. Not now while he was awake and alert. He moved, now, over to his coat, picking it up, shaking it out, and sliding into it, not in any real hurry, but with the general intent of getting out of the house. He checked in his pocket for the car keys.

Sam frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Look, it doesn't matter. And I hear ya. I do." He shrugged. "Don't expect a miracle."

Sam shoulders relaxed slowly. "...okay." He nodded a little. That was alright. He wasn't expecting something over night. He just... He didn't want the only person left in the world that he really cared for to be miserable.

Dean knew, personally, that there was no way in hell he could let himself lean on Sam. He felt bad enough with the whole creepy dependency he had going for him already. As long as Sam didn't know what a freak he was -- and he didn't get the feeling, from the conversation, that Sam _did_ know... Well, he didn't actually intend much to change. Boundaries? He liked them where they were.

"You wanna come downtown with me?"

Sam paused at the invitation, then nodded with a small smile. "Yeah. I would."

Sam knew. He knew and he wasn't disgusted. He knew why - because he could never hate Dean, not his brother. He knew he should feel sickened more than he did, but honestly he was more bothered by the aching emptiness in Dean than he was that particular desire. He didn't fully understand _why_ Dean felt that way, but he didn't need to know. His big brother was still protecting him -- this time from his own desires. He hadn't brought it up because he knew just how much it would break Dean. Sam would never be able to convince his brother that he wasn't revolted by him, that he didn't think he was a freak. So, he just kept quiet about it.

Dean was a smooth operator. He knew what to give, and he knew when. So maybe it was the first sign he didn't really intend to change a thing when they'd been at the bar an hour and he'd disappeared from shooting pool with a thought of _Hell, yeah_ and was making out with the cute bartender in a bathroom stall and slipping his fingers in her panties while her partner worked the patrons for both of them, when she pulled him out the backdoor and he was thumbing a condom out of his wallet, or when she let him put it to her in the bed of her black Dodge Ram at the edge of the parking lot with her legs wrapped around his waist. And then Dean showed up again and tossed Sam the car keys and grinned, threw a wink over his shoulder at Keisha, and downed the rest of his beer, because he wasn't going home, tonight.

Yep. He'd change when hell froze over.


	6. Chapter 6

Maybe before everything that had occurred it would have taken Sam more time to realize that everything Dean had given was fake. Before, he would have bought into it, believing this his brother’s offer could be the slow beginning of change. But Sam was in Dean's head, even when Dean was banging Keisha, rubber and crushed, dry leaves beneath his knees, the bite of cold air on bare skin. Sam felt it, like he could feel himself inside of her. It didn't turn him on. It just made him _angry_. By the time Dean returned to the bar, Sam was seeing red.

Did Dean think he was playing around or something? Standing there with his beer, looking self-satisfied.

Maybe if Sam hadn't been so angry, he would have done something less monumentally stupid. He wasn't drunk, but there was enough alcohol in him to make fore-thought hindsight. 

When he dragged Dean out behind the bar, he didn't even know what to yell at him. Not that that stopped him. He yelled, slinging words and accusations and hurt and frustration. Why? Why couldn't Dean just be less...less _Dean_. Why couldn't he let him help? Even for a minute?

"What's it going to take?" He said finally, slamming his hands on the wall to either side of Dean's head. "What does it take for you to just _stop_?" He leaned in close. "This? Is this the only thing that'd make trust me?" He kissed him, hard and quick, in anger. "Is that it?"

The way Dean looked, Sam might've punched him in the face. He was drained, from the sex, from the yelling; ashamed the way Sam's lips grinding on his jolted arousal through his stomach; confused... oh yeah, confused as fuck. He didn't want to touch Sam, because he _wanted_ to touch him. He didn't want to be there, trapped between Sam and a wall -- a situation he wasn't unfamiliar with. Sam might've kissed him, it seemed that way, anyway, and what the hell was Sam thinking? Sam might've kissed him... but it was himself Dean was disgusted with.

"...don't."

His stomach clenched cold. Dean wasn't ready to face it, not in front of Sam. It was one thing for stray thoughts to run through his mind late at night. Face to face with this, faced with the unexpected reality that he really would put it to Sam if he had the chance heating up his crotch... It wasn't something Dean wanted to know about himself.

"Don't what?" Sam was too angry now to stop. It was sort of the little brother's place, to always be a step behind, and always be mad about it. He thought they were over that shit. He thought they were both adults now, that they could be teammates instead of hero and sidekick. He thought Dean could depend on him like he depended on Dean, but that was never how it ended up.

Instead Dean told him he would try and it was more than him _not_ trying, it was the thought that he didn't even have the intention to try, that all he'd wanted to do was get away from Sam and that conversation and the idea that his wants, his needs, could ever be fulfilled.

"This?" Sam leaned down, but stopped before their lips met a second time, though their noses were now brushing. "Shit," he muttered, his eyes shut. What was he doing? Purposefully pushing all his brother's buttons? And not light, teasing buttons. Deep seated, emotional issue buttons. "...seriously man. Is this the only way you'd even consider letting me in?"

It didn't matter that Sam didn't kiss him. Dean could taste Sam on his lips and in the air. Dean's brow flinched, his breathing heavy. It would've been easy to close that distance, and Dean wanted to, and he didn't, but the idea was there: the idea of touching Sam, of getting a mouthful. His stomach flipped over like a pancake. He'd never considered it. He'd never once considered it. Not _actually_ kissing Sam, touching him, fucking him. He'd never _once_ considered it. Didn't mean he hadn't wanted to.

"I never..."

He ran his tongue over his lips. 

_He flashed Sam a grin and waggled his eyebrows. "Anytime you wanna feel good, you let me hook you up."_

_Sam stopped walking, and looked back at his brother._

_"I want to feel good," he asked, the pain he felt digging its claws in. "Please?"_

"Hell, Sam... Don’t do this to me."

He wanted to back off, but there was nowhere to go. It was revolting. He was a terrible brother.

"You're _not_ ," Sam said in a low voice, but it came up high at the end, like a child denying something. He had caught the thought, the drifting fantasy (having no memory of it as real), but the minute he even thought to be upset by it he caught that something that far worse, far more upsetting.

"You're not a terrible brother. You've always been nothing but the best." He stayed close, that close, their heads just brushing, his eyes still shut. "Don't ever think that. Don't ever... You were all the family I could ever depend on. You made me feel safe in a life where there _was_ no safety. You did everything _right_. Don't you get it? That's why I have to help you-- I _need_ to help you. Because you're my big brother, and I can't just let you do this to yourself. I _can't_. Please..."

The sensation of disgust began to sink towards despair. Dean closed his eyes, too, listening to Sam's words. Even if Sam felt that way, honestly felt that way...

"How can y' help me with this...?" A short laugh slipped out under his breath.

Dean wanted it to stop. Everything. Sam, and the way Dean himself felt towards him. It was too much, too much at once, and that sick, confused desire that had been buried so long, building up pressure, was heady in him, now, and he had to wait it out.

Sam's words offered no comfort. So Dean had done everything right. He didn't want Sam repaying it by letting him bang him. That was wrong. It was fucked up.

"I don't know." Sam replied honestly. But Dean hadn't abandoned him in the dark, a part of him remembered that. How could he leave his brother here, suffering like this?

It wasn't that Sam was willing to give up his dreams. He wasn't. He'd made sure of that when he left for college. That this wasn't fleeting, that if he had to go all the way for this, he would. And he would. He wasn't going back to a life of hunting when this was over -- but he had never, in any way, equated that with leaving or abandoning his brother. They were family. That meant more than state lines and paychecks. 

He pulled Dean in, tight against him, not a hug, not a fleeting thing, but a tight, desperate embrace. "But I can't just pretend you're fine."

Dean didn't return the embrace, his arms limp at his sides, but he rested his forehead against Sam's shoulder and tried to breathe through the staggering guilt crushing his body, his eyes shut. Even if Sam said it was okay, Dean was nowhere close to feeling it. It was Sammy, his little brother; his little brother dad trusted him to take care of. If Sam had come up to him, said 'I want you to fuck me' with that kicked puppy look of his, if Dean had never thought about it himself until that time...Dean knew he'd do whatever Sam needed. But it was different, coming from Dean. It was because Sam was grateful, because Sam loved him, because Sam was an idiot for kissing him like that...Dean saw it as taking advantage of Sam, any way he looked at it. 

Some part of Sam recognized that'd he'd made things monumentally more fucked than before, but he was angry, and upset, and he wanted some way to break Dean out of his pattern, and the fantasies he’d been tracking for days seemed the most obvious of ways. 

He didn't let go of Dean, because he had the feeling that the moment he did, Dean would read it as rejection, or run off or something.

And, truth was, if Dean could have left, he would have. It wasn't his way to get caught compromised like this. It was Sam, so he would tolerate it as long as Sam held him, though the longer he did the deeper Dean sank.

Over the past year Dean and Sam had worked out equilibrium, a kind of normal, a place Dean had felt safe enough in to drop his barriers a time or two. That was over. Dean had been reckless and he'd wrecked it. Now there was Sam, still Sam, for some reason, Sam holding him close because Sam was right: Dean would disappear if he could, get his distance back, reestablish his space and make sure Sam couldn't get in where Dean could hurt him. Right now, all Dean could do was breathe angry and feel the raw ache of a self-hatred with no end in sight. No matter how much he hated himself, he couldn't stop himself from wanting what he did -- all those selfish, jealous desires.

Sam's arms tightened because _god_ that felt awful. He could feel all the black, nasty things crawling in Dean's skull and he didn't know what to do to stop them.

"Stop..." he murmured pleadingly, knowing something like that would never do any good. You couldn't _talk_ someone into not hating themselves. "Just stop. I don't hate you, I could never hate you. ...stop torturing yourself over this."

Dean sounded tired, darkly, numbly amused.

"Y' _should_ hate me, Sammy. You know just how much of me don’t care what you want."

If Dean had his way, Sam would stay with him forever. By his side. In his bed. No difference. Maybe Sam was right, and he could have done whatever he wanted with himself, been anything. Then again, where would the family be now if Dean was a person like that? Sam wouldn't have been protected, kept safe and sound, all those years. John would've been more alone than he already was, maybe too alone to keep the fight rational. All three of them would have already died in months recent. 

The family was Dean’s life. Dean had always wanted it that way. If it took suffering, if it took being miserable and lonely until he died hard and fast at the hands of some monster...Dean saw that as an acceptable risk. He kept quiet about his own desires, raised a little protest for the sake of it and then was there for Sam and for John, whatever path they chose. Sam just couldn't leave shit alone. He had to keep digging at it and digging.

Dean could feel himself closing off again. It felt good. It felt safe. His breath slowly calmed. If Sam would just let him go back, to not accept what lay bare between them, if Sam could fucking let him do that... As Dean saw it, it was the only thing Sam _could_ do and not make things worse, not make Dean face up every day of his life to the fact that he wouldn't let his little brother go in any healthy way.

_No fucking way._

Sam was not letting Dean back off and put up his walls and never come out again and always be miserable and hating himself far away where no one could see him or touch him or comfort him.

He took Dean's head in his hands and kissed him, again. Kissing Dean didn't sicken him -- a motion of comfort, like any other. Proof of fidelity. It felt... odd. Dean felt eerily familiar. It was sort of like kissing himself. 

But god, Sam would do anything if it kept Dean from disappearing into himself again.

With Sam's lips slipping against his a second time, Dean could tell himself that this at least was no accident on Sam's part, no heat of the moment, angry thing driving home a point. At first Sam's mouth ministered over Dean's parted lips and that was it, Dean didn't kiss him back. But as Dean felt his repulsion sink from the knot in his throat to settle heavy and dull in his chest, his lips closed slick and gentle over Sam's lower lip. Then Dean was kissing his little brother, not any chaste 'family kiss', working Sam's mouth like he worked a woman's, lips playing tricks to draw him in deeper. 

Kissing Sam wasn't like Dean imagined it. His imagination always abstracted it, tried to keep the idea from tipping into a major turnoff. Sam was anything but. The smell off Sam’s body was a smell Dean associated with safe harbor, with sanctuary. He let himself go like he couldn’t with some woman who might nick his wallet. Sure, Dean had known women who were better kissers than Sam, but the white shock that thrummed through his body was as intense as he'd ever felt. He kissed Sam and his body said _This is mine_. He hated it. It was twisted. It was wrong. But _hell_ it felt good, and while he kissed him his arms slid up over denim and layers of clothes and held Sam closer and he held Sam like he owned him, because he knew Sam's lanky body well enough to own the moment. He took all he could, because he didn't have faith that Sam wouldn't be gone in the morning knowing his brother was a sick freak who got off on the way he'd made a person for himself he wanted to call home.

Sam was conflicted. The sensation of kissing his brother was... conflicting. On the one hand, kissing was a sensual act, and his body was programmed to respond to that. Dean was a good (possibly fantastic, if he wanted to analyze it like that) kisser, and he knew, logically, that you kissed people to feel good, to make them feel good. But, right now, it was more to make Dean feel good than himself. 

Perversely, all Sam could think about was how weird it must be for Dean to have to lean his head up to kiss someone.

Below that were the more serious thoughts. The ones that caught every impulse of 'mine' and knew that this wasn't a passing fancy for Dean, something fleeting -- that his wasn't something a one night stand would fix (even if Sam were willing to do such a thing, which he was not). Dean loved him, at least in a brotherly way and at most in a romantic way. Sam didn't know how far that went, but he knew it was there. With their mouths crossing lines and Dean’s hands on his body, it wasn't exactly something he could ignore.

This, of course, led to questions like ‘How far am I prepared to take this?’ Would he sleep with Dean? (Doubtful.) Would he deny this had happened tomorrow morning? (So doubtful as to be nigh impossible.) Would he spend his life with Dean just to make sure he was happy? (Oddly enough, more possible than the other two options).

Dean had never kissed a guy before. Kissing a guy, kissing Sam, he pretty much knew why. Sam was big, huge, even, and even with all the muscle he’d lost, every inch of him was rock solid -- no soft curves to work his hands on, and an intimidating (exhilarating) sense of entrapment, between Sam and the boards at his back. If it was a guy Dean knew any less well, he would've liked it less, distrusted it immediately, and socked him in the face, fought for his space and for leverage. The stubble on Sam's skin, that was strange, but not bad. 

When Dean knew he would take it further, when his once-sated body was getting around like _hey, hey, are we going again?_ , he broke off, a hand in Sam's hair and a hand ( _shit_ ) on his ass. He let his hands slip off him, looked at him from up close, breathing hard and his eyes alive like Sam never saw them because Sam never saw him in his element like this. He knew he'd feel like dying when Sam wasn't hot and there against him, all muscle and body heat, but he was in the moment now and the moment was a good one and his face said _this is who I am_ and he needed Sam to understand that, before Sam pushed him too far and they couldn't come back from it -- if they could even come back from it now.

Sam looked down at him without feeling lost, because even if the feeling was common for him, he had initiated this, and he'd known _why_ he'd initiated it. When it came to his visions, his voices, when it came to the darkness and the people who ended up over his bed, he was lost. He was so lost it would be a wonder if he ever found a way to right himself. But when it came to Dean, he was never lost, because Dean was more than just the person he knew best. He knew every inch of him. Inside, now, and out. There was a map to Dean and Sam was the only person who knew every crazy twist, turn and insane loop.

And now he knew this. This next piece of Dean, of the almost fully completed puzzle that was his brother in his mind. The piece that was alive and doing what he knew how to do -- but Sam couldn't take it there. A motion was just a motion if it had no meaning, but sex was still sex, and Sam couldn't take it to the point where he knew his brother _literally_ inside and out, carnally, biblically, whatever he wanted to call it. Maybe one day, if Dean tripped him up and he found himself wanting it, but Dean would know -- he'd know the minute he got his clothes off and found that Sam was not aroused. Even now, Sam was breathless and his lips were bruised, and Sam felt alright about it, but Sam was not aroused.

And, perhaps, it was even a little more than that. Sam had had sex with just one person in his life, and he had always intended it to be that way. It wasn't about any kind of weird moral system that said that it was wrong to sleep with more than one person -- hell; he'd been raised by Dean Winchester of all people. He knew it was just fine to have multiple partners.

It just wasn't what turned him on, in the end.

Sam was more and more like John than he even knew. He'd had one great love of his life, and there would be no other. His heart didn't have the room, not for the love, or the pain. Even kissing Sarah, as much of a relief as it was to feel another's body close to his, was a hollow motion. One great love, and the rest was left for revenge.

Kissing Dean? That felt like it was just an extension of the greatest relationship of his life -- parent, brother, friend, companion, and now, perhaps lover. Whatever dimension of Dean he saw, whatever shape or persona Dean twisted himself into, it would never surprise Sam. It would never scare him or inspire revulsion in him.

Even incest, when worn on his brother's skin, seemed like a petty sin.

He kissed Dean again, briefly this time.

"Let's get back to the car."

Dean's gaze slunk off to the side.

"Right."

Keisha would wonder where he went. At least she hadn't followed him out back. He knew, in a vague way, that she was probably all the sex he'd get in this town, even if Sam had kissed him three times now. The willingness was there, maybe, but not the chemistry. He didn't regret that. Not one bit. It made things a lot easier, actually. Still, he had a funny, sick idea that if he blew Sam off right now and chased Keisha’s tail he might have to watch dropping the soap. ( _One hell of a temper._ ) So, he followed Sam’s lead, though he wasn't enthusiastic about it -- felt a little recalcitrant, even. 

Aggressive affection that he couldn't ignore... Dean didn't know if that was good or bad and he didn't like it because it made things complicated. It put them in uncharted territory. Still, he got in the car, passenger side, and put the seat back the couple inches it would go, a black, brooding feeling settling over him.

Sam hadn't expected an instant solution; in fact, he'd suspected it'd get worse before it got better. So when it came back to him like that, he wasn't shocked. 

He drove them back up to their cabin, which had become considerably more home-like and less abandoned-abode-looking over the last few weeks. The drive was spent in not entirely unexpected silence, but when they got in, after they both changed into their night clothes with the same silence hanging over them, after that, Sam spoke again. 

"We can just...take this slow, right?" He asked, looking over at his brother, not wanting Dean to read slowness as utter rejection. He knew his brother was used to just jumping straight into things. Even if the implications of this weren't what they were, Sam was the type to like to sit back and think long and hard over each motion, and he intended to do so here.

Dean looked at him like he wasn't sure why Sam was asking.

"Whatever you want, man."

If Dean had his way, it'd already be a non-issue. He'd be at Keisha's house, doing something kinky, have a lot of sex, sleep a little, maybe end up at Waffle House with her at five am, then let her drop him off at the cabin. That'd been Dean's plan for the night, until Sam derailed it. 

Sam got into bed, and this time, he did so facing towards the other side, not with his back to it.

Dean's face said this was an evil trap set by _the devil_. But, Dean wasn't the kind of person to back down or back off from a challenge. He climbed stubbornly into bed, settled down on his back under the covers. He shot Sam a _look_. Then, he turned his back to him, but it wasn't in a way that said _back off_. He didn't want Sam breathing in his face all night, that was all. If Sam's balls were so big, he could spoon him or whatever he wanted. Dean's body language wasn't closed off to that. It was big enough just knowing Sam was looking at his back, knowing Sam knew everything he thought when he seriously couldn't draw a bead on what was going on in his little brother's crazy head. Man, who was okay with their big brother putting it on them? (Okay. Rednecks, that was who.) What was Dean supposed to do with this offering? Dean didn't know. It wasn't like he wanted to cuddle like a queer. ~~Except he kind of totally did.~~ He wouldn't cuddle like a queer. That was that. It was fine with a woman, but not with Sam. They did manly things together. They burned stuff and shot guns.

And that was the thing, really. Sam knew what Dean wanted, beneath all the bravado and posturing, even the posturing the older man did with himself to make himself believe what he thought. But Sam could feel the things that went on even beneath that, and he shifted closer in the bed. He didn't press up against him, didn't align their bodies. Instead he reached out, hand covering Dean's, which was resting on his brother's leg, and stayed there, their fingers just faintly entwined.

Dean could live with that. It didn't make him feel any more like shit. Didn't let him pretend Sam wasn't there and nothing had happened like he might have wanted to, but it wasn't some jarring thing throwing his center off as he got to sleep. A part of him was still working on how to throw Sam off of this crazy idea he had that they needed to bond anymore than they did, another part of him was entertaining some kind of pervy thoughts about the things he could do to Sam now that doing pervy things to Sam was even vaguely an option, and a lot of him was hating that part, a little guilty, a little humiliated, a little bit thinking of how hard John would kick his ass if he had _any_ idea and Jesus his dad hadn't raised him like this. Anyway. He fell asleep.

\----

Sam woke first, closer to his brother than he had been when he fell asleep. Their hands had disconnected, of course, but Dean was lying on his back again. Sam sat up, looking down at him, placing his hand against his brother's sternum, feeling the proud beat of a heart.

He had no intentions of looking for anything else. He wanted to end the demon that had taken his mother, and taken his lover, and then... then, he would become a lawyer. He would get a house and it would have a room filled with books he never read, and that would be it. If he had no intention of looking for anything else, what was wrong with giving Dean what he wanted? He didn't mind. Maybe he was more of a freak than Dean, given that the idea of being in a life long, one sided relationship with his brother didn't bother him at all, but that was his way. He was stubborn and single minded, and Dean deserved to get what he wanted for once.

Sam leaned down, kissing his brother lightly.

A pleased sound groaned down in Dean's throat and Dean's lips returned the gesture out of habit and instinct. It was a great way to wake up, Dean's favorite way to wake up...

....except, when his eyes drifted open, the person kissing him was clearly Sam.

Dean grunted and shut his eyes firmly, shoved Sam off and hit his head against the pillow, jolting himself up to reality. He lay there a couple seconds, cracked one eye and said "Oh, god..." and tried to shift his way out from under Sam as he woke himself up, because this? This was just... cheesy, damn it. Sam was being a girl at him. He couldn't handle it when Sam was being a girl at him. That, and he could totally make out. Right here. Right now. There was no processing that fact.

Sam felt that the fact that Dean didn't get an elbow to the side for that girl thought made him eligible for an award. Best brother ever, or something.

"What?" Sam looked down at him, lifting his head to give them a couple of inches between one another. "You liked it." He knew Dean liked it, he'd leaned into it, so why all the 'it was so cheesy' bullcrap?

Dean stopped trying to get away from him when Sam got out of his face. He glowered up at him, certain defenses in place. "Nothin', just..." No, it wasn't nothing. It was more like, "What the hell?"

"What do you mean what the hell?" Sam didn't back up any more than that, because he knew Dean would be across the room in a minute if he let him. "You were kissing me pretty enthusiastically last night."

Dean had a hard time believing Sam didn't get this, if only because it seemed so obvious to him. He squinted at him, incredulous.

"Sam, if you keep up this damn kissin' thing, you better be ready to put out. There's a list of people I want slobberin' on me. Yeah, it's a _long_ list, but they're all good for one thing."

There were _words_ for people like Sam who got heavy with you and never followed through.

Sam frowned. 

"Does the phrase 'take it slow' mean _anything_ to you?" He looked back at him with all the stubbornness he was known for. "If we're doing this, we're doing it slow, and before we are doing anything, you are so getting tested, because I am not getting herpes from you. Or the plague." He gave him a sharp look.

Dean was going to point out that Sam couldn’t possibly follow through with this for more than a few days, and that for a Dean, taking it slow meant giving Sam space to figure out what he wanted and then jumping his bones, or not, or whatever. Dean didn't have a firm grasp on relationships that lasted more than one night. He had only been in one, and his grasp on that one had been _poor_. (Plus, Cassie put out _all_ the time.) Making out with Sam a lot and not knowing if he'd get any, ever, would be like torture.

Those thoughts all shot right past him because:

"Oh, come _on_ , man, I'm careful."

"Yeah, and there's still a three percent chance you've gotten something. Which means one out of every thirty three one night stands was the same as doing it without a condom, and I know you've slept with more than thirty three women." Sam wasn't giving in on this. He so wasn't going to have sex with his brother _and_ get something that hadn't been seen since the 1800’s at the same time. "Besides, condoms don't stop you from getting crabs, or something equally gross."

 _You are such a geek_. Sam was such a geek. With his statistics. With his concern for health and hygiene. Bar girls never made Dean go get tested. Dean could safely say he'd never been tested for anything in his life. He grumbled and rolled his eyes.

"That is _so_ unsexy."

"Yeah? So's _syphilis_." 

It took Dean awhile to get through the fact that Sam was actually, maybe considering sleeping with him, and all the things that were really _wrong_ with that. Dean wasn’t one to bother with a gift horse’s mouth, though. Besides, he felt great. It didn’t seem possible he had any venereal diseases.

"Fine. I'll get 'tested'."

Sam was thinking about sleeping with him. Not _that night_ though. Not really soon, either. Like he'd said, he wanted to take things slow, and Dean could call him a girl all he wanted -- he'd show him girly when he got a punch to the face. For Dean or not, Sam still had a lot of bases to cover, with Dean and with himself.

Dean was still thinking. 

"...I can still sleep with Keisha, right?" He pointed across his chest, vaguely over towards the direction of town. He was way past in the door with her! She was pretty hot, too. He needed to know.

Sam's head jerked back and he looked offended. He snorted, like 'yeah right.'

"No!" He was now propped up over Dean, on both arms, straightened out. "Absolutely not. I'm not going to be one of your little conquests. If we do this, we do it _right_." He gave Dean a _look_. "Which means no more sleeping with other people -- right?" There was only one correct answer to that question.

Dean guessed that the answer to that question was not 'Unless we hit it _together_.' That was never the answer to any of Sam's questions. (Except maybe with actual, physical hitting.)

"We're dating? Dude. You're my brother."

"Dude, you're the one with the fantasies." Sam responded instantly. Sam was one of those absolute, no holds barred, no questions about it, no way out of it, serial monogamists. He was utterly uninterested in a relationship in which the other person was not fully his, or he not fully theirs. Admittedly, he wasn't sure if he'd ever fully be Dean's, but he knew that there was no one else he cared about more than Dean. If he couldn't love his brother, who could he love? 

"So, are you in, or out?" It was Sam or the random pit stop chicks -- not both.

When Dean thought about it, plenty of people already thought Sam was his boyfriend. It'd happened more than five times. It wasn't like he wanted Sam as a 'conquest', either. Conquests he moved on from. Moving on from Sam was never going to happen, whether for some godforsaken reason they got it on, or not.

Dean was already going to hell. He'd covered all seven deadly sins and then some. Concerns for his immortal soul weren't going to stop him from having sex with his brother. Concerns that his dad might blow his brains out point blank with a rock salt shotgun, not even a pistol, and how much like a bitch that'd hurt? Those were legitimate. But Dean wanted it. Sam was offering it. It was almost too big, too much, like a birthday and Christmas and the fourth of July on the same day. And honestly, Dean still didn't think Sam would be good for it, in the end. Sam was just stubborn, that was all. 

Dean searched Sam's face, looking for a reservation, something to give him a reason to put an end to it, but he couldn't find one.

"...I'm in."

"Good," Sam said simply, as if that could possibly even begin to close up all the issues with this situation. And then the younger man leaned down and covered Dean's mouth with his own. It wasn't a girly kiss, not by far. It was assertive and plain and solid. Sam didn't move much when he kissed; he wasn't an action type kisser. He was all firmness and presence.

Dean found himself kissing his brother again. How many times was that, now? It was more than him kissing Sam, though. Sam was kissing him. It'd be awhile before Dean could initiate this sort of thing, even if Sam was serious. He couldn't help the feeling that he was pushing this on Sam, if only in the way he couldn't let it go in his own thoughts and impulses. The follow-through, though? That, Dean was good for. He had an ambitious mouth and ambitious hands and he had a lot of ambitions. 

Sam knew his brother's skills in this arena would be fine tuned, given all the girls he'd taken down (to his bed). He wasn't surprised that his brother's lips moved like they knew exactly what to do, where to go, where to be, how to part and slip between. Sam felt his tongue press resolutely outwards, between Dean's lips, feeling out the mouth that was so similar to his own.

Dean let him explore. He was glad Sam was willing to -- wanted to might be too strong a phrase. His body adjusted underneath him, until he felt more comfortable and more intimate. He began to guide Sam in the kiss, unobtrusively, like _Yeah, that's pretty good; look at this trick I know_ , without thinking as much. 

Damn, but it was going straight to his crotch. Sam turned him on white hot: the mouth he knew, and the arms he knew, and the thighs he knew and Sam half on top of him. It was so alien and off limits it was like making out with the sun. He slid his hand up Sam's neck, his leg up a little against the thigh beside him. He felt himself shudder, all that energy rippling through him with nowhere to go. And Sam wouldn't give it up. Dean was going to have some quality time with his hand real soon. 

Sam was totally not giving anything up until he had a piece of paper that said, in no uncertain terms, that Dean wasn't a public health threat that needed to be quarantined immediately.

Still, he could feel how much Dean was enjoying this. Dean, apparently, didn't subscribe to the notion of 'just making out'.

Sam's tongue met with his brother's and, despite himself, he sucked in a breath of air through his nose.

Dean would've told him he could just make out. Dean was physically capable of that. But this wasn't just making out. This was making out with _Sam_ , and that was a whole lot of other stuff and a long time waiting and way, way more arousing than he would have bought stock in. People were excited by new things, and Sam in bed was new, and making out with a guy? Brand new, too. For a sexual guy like Dean, that and the friction of his too-tight boxer briefs as he shifted on the bed was about enough to make him...

.........

 _Damn_. "Damn!" _Damn_. "Damn." _Damn_.

Dean breathed open mouthed against Sam's mouth, his eyes fluttering with disbelief and he'd _totally_ just blown his load in his pants and that was _not_ cool. "That _never_ happens," he warned, because if Sam made fun of him he was going to-- Fuck. His cheeks were hot. Fuck. He was embarrassed. He felt like was fucking fourteen again.

Sam didn't even crack a smile. It wasn't funny. It was...flattering. He had never expected that. Dean was the guy who could get any chick in the sack, and here he was, apparently so turned on by Sam that he had just orgasmed without even being touched.

"...damn." Sam finally said, their lips still moist and close together. "Okay. That was actually kind of sexy." And then he shifted, swinging one long leg over Dean, so that he was straddling his waist, and with his angle not so awkward, he kissed him again, this time deeper, more hotly. Because...well, damn. That _was_ kind of sexy.

Dean was surprised for a second because coming off-beat and unexpected? That was something he'd practiced out of. But then Sam was on top of him, and he got it. It _was_ a compliment, the feeling of being a fumbling teenager with the cute girl he picked up at a gas station who laughed at him and sauntered out of the bushes, swinging hips taunting his accidental failure, aside. He kissed Sam back fervently, heat and warmth seeping through his body. Maybe it was better; he was a lot more relaxed now, he could roll with it, think about just making out not about getting off.

Sam kept his hands on either side of Dean's head, holding his jaw as they kissed, surprised by just how into this he was getting. So maybe this wouldn't be as chemistry-less as he thought it'd be. In fact, color him just slightly turned on. He was a little amazed to admit it, but hell. Dean was his big brother, his world from the age of six months to sixteen years. Even after that, it had taken Sam years to expand his world at all, and it had ended up being to all of three or four people, and only one person to any measurable amount. And here was Dean, the person he'd looked up to all the time he was growing up, and he found him _that_ much of a turn on, and that sort of blew Sam away.

Dean hadn't found Sam attractive when they were little. It was nothing like that. Even when they weren't little, his teenage years had been glutted with the discovery of _girls_. Any sexual thoughts about his brother were focused around his belief that Sam needed to lose his virginity as soon as he possibly could. 

Actually fantasizing about getting with him had taken four years of separation and the fact that Sam came back a different person, more his own person, and that person turned out to be somebody Dean wanted to spend as much of his life as he could with. Not that he hadn't still wanted to see Sam get himself laid in, either. Dean saw that as normal for a healthy man. He'd meant it with Sarah. He wouldn't mind seeing Sam marry a girl like that. Have a house. Make babies.

Any which way, Dean had always taken a pretty proactive interest in Sam's gear. The fact that Sam grew into the hottest guy he'd _ever_ seen... That helped a lot, too. 

They made out pretty heavily for the next ten minutes, and Sam found himself oddly contented to do so. He never felt a moment’s twinge of disgust or revulsion -- it was Dean, after all, and all Dean’s revulsion and regret was against himself, churning down in his stomach and ignored, overwhelmed by the buzz of excitement and the way Sam’s generosity had turned into genuine interest, assuaged by that post-orgasmic bliss.

When their lips finally parted, wet and full, Sam found he was breathing a bit heavily.

"So. What do we do with the rest of our day?" He smirked a little.

Dean grinned in return, out of breath and wallowing in amazement.

"Seems like you're gettin' a lot of your muscle back." He rapped the back of his knuckles demonstratively on Sam's chest. He'd just checked all that out pretty good. Soon, maybe another few weeks, they could hit the road again. 

It was extremely weird to be in the position he was with Sam, and he needed to change his pants. Those things were true, but while Dean hadn't exactly embraced the idea of Sam as sex partner... Well, he'd sure as hell embraced Sam. And having sex with Sam? That was better than having to have sharing time. Dean was more of a demonstrator than a talker.

Sam still counted it as a success, because he couldn't hear the ball of self-hatred and angst whirring around in Dean's head anymore, at least, not at the moment. Distracting him from it seemed was good enough. He'd work his way up to erasing it completely.

Sam shifted back, sitting on Dean's thighs. "Yeah... s'getting better." He certainly didn't feel quite so debilitated.

"I'll be glad to get out of this _lame_ day labor gig," Dean muttered, thoughts still tumbling by too fast for much relevant conversation.

Dean hadn't told Sam, but sometimes he'd had to drive as far as a town or two over to pick up work. Except he'd just told Sam, because he'd started thinking about it. He was lucky the competition wasn't too stiff in this part of the country.

Sam decided it'd probably be nice to let Dean get up and change his pants. He shifted off his brother's legs, leaving him free to get up.

"What do we do when we leave here? I mean, are we meeting up with dad again?"

Dean sat up, sliding his legs off the bed. "Depends on what he's found out, I guess. May be business as usual for awhile." He got up and went to rifle through his bag, pulling out a couple of things and examining him before he picked out a pair of jeans and a shirt.

Sam puffed a sigh a bit. Great. More hunting. Not that he hadn't expected that. But he didn't make a face, or say anything. He just got up -- at least it was something he was used to. Some more working out and he'd be almost to the level of strength he possessed when he was...seventeen. Awesome.

He moved to his bag (at some point, he thought to himself, they should have gotten themselves drawers, but he supposed it was too late for that now), pulling out some clothes for the day.

Dean stripped off his nightclothes, his shirt, and then his boxer briefs, cleaning himself up a little with the later before he tossed them both into his 'definitely dirty' clothes pile. It was about time to do laundry. The weekly trip to the laundromat was pretty much standard for their family. Sam had been amazed at the decadence of having a washer and dryer in the building you lived in when he'd moved to the dorms. Most of the crappy motels they stayed in didn't have their own.

Dean pulled his jeans on and stretched into a t-shirt; reached in the collar to pull his necklace out on top, tugged the edges of the shirt down over his stomach. Almost said something personal, then didn’t. At all. "Guess I'll go try an' win some bread."

"Yeah. You go win the bread, and cook it, and I'll just be here and tell you you're not doing it fast enough. Good deal?" Sam pulled on sweats and a shirt. He'd go for a run or something. The woodlands were pretty good for stretching his legs in.

Dean put on a flannel button-up and his battered leather jacket, checked the pocket for the car keys, remembered Sam had driven, and went to search Sam's coat pockets.

"Good thing I didn't marry you for your _domestic_ skills." 

"Yeah?" Sam quirked his head. "What did you marry me for then?" He pulled on one of his hoodies, since it was getting more chill outside. He gave Dean a dry look.

Dean made a pronounced show of leaning forward and around, checking Sam's ass out, lips pursed in concentration. He smiled wide and threw a wink as he straightened up, produced the keys and pocketed them. "Your brains, babe."

Sam gaped. That...that was the most classless thing he'd _ever seen_.

Dean laughed at Sam's expression, shook his humor off, and headed for the door. At least he was coping. When he was further off, then, oh sure, he'd brood. 

Sam just snorted, moving outside as Dean drove off. He took a deep breath, watching him go. He pulled the hood of his sweater up over his head, as it was just beginning to drizzle a little, and began at slow jog at first to warm up.

It would be charitable to call the areas Sam ran on near the cabin 'trails'. Once, perhaps, a few people had moved through the mountainous areas and trod out a few trails, but in the years since the undergrowth had become overgrowth and Sam found himself kicking aside brambles and branches as he ran, occasionally trying to jump over them and just straining a not-yet-redeveloped muscle for his troubles.

The rain came fairly frequently up here, and it kept the area from getting dusty, the ground turned to hard packed mud -- perfect for running on. As he felt his legs stretch out and his lungs expand, Sam sped up his pace.

Around him, the woods were dense and lonely and full of life. He rounded a stony bend, able to look down to his left and see a rocky embankment, leading down to a small creek. Some creature too fast for him to make out dashed away at his passing. There was an unfortunate side effect of being alone like this, everyday: it was too easy to get wrapped up in one's own head.

Not that Sam wasn't predisposed to such a thing, because he was.

It wasn't that he hadn't regretted leaving his family when he did. He did. For all his frustration with the Winchesters, he was still, undeniably, one of them. When his father had told him to never come back, it was worse than a knife to the gut, and Sam would know, having felt that before. He hadn't talked to Dean between then and leaving. He hadn't had a lot of choice. He'd had to grab the bags he could and leave, under his father's stony gaze the entire time. He'd moved directly from there to the road, hitchhiking his way to a bigger town. He'd never really gotten a chance to say goodbye to Dean -- who had, as usual, excused himself from their arguments. Not that Sam could blame him.

College had ended up being so strange and different from what he expected. Large and filled with people who thought so differently from him. He'd always thought that if he could be around normal people he could fit in -- but, of course, he couldn't. The first year had been long, and lonely, and awkward. He had killed a poltergeist in the dorms, and after that, though no one knew what had really been going on, he'd been singled out as 'odd'. 

Jess had been the one who changed that. Not that Sam hadn't changed her, too. He remembered her clearly, the first day he met her in the cafeteria, and the way she had completely rubbed him the wrong way. She had taken him on as some kind of pet project, and he had ignored her the best he could. She was superficial and irritating. 

The course of events that would take Sam from distant and mean to still-somewhat-awkward but kind, and Jessica from assuming and dismissive to open and empathetic, were the same things that every eighteen year old goes through when they go to college. They grew up, and grew into one another.

He cursed as a thorny bush got a good whack at him, and embedded itself in not only his jeans, but his leg as well, and he was forced to stop to disentangle himself. It wasn't strange that he was thinking of Jess. After all, most of these moments of quiet were taken with thoughts of her. He thought, however, having just made his brother come in his pants, that there'd be bigger things on his mind -- things like 'incest', and 'do I need to reread Dante's Inferno to figure out the exact circle of hell I'm going to?'

But the thing that was really concerning him was that he was, undeniably now, entering into a new relationship. Okay, admittedly, it was with his brother (somewhat odd, even for Winchesters), but still a new relationship, something he'd been unprepared for, after Jess's death. Honestly, though, he wondered if the only person he could even fathom such a thing with was Dean (again, somewhat abnormal).

He disentangled from the thorns, half skipping away before he caught his balance and began to jog again.

After all, Dean was utterly different than Jessica -- everything from his gender to his disposition. Even when Jess had still been a teenager, she'd never managed to hit the levels of obnoxious that Dean could, now, at twenty-eight. After all, lusting after your little brother was pretty obnoxious. Not _telling_ him about it, when the two of your confided almost everything with one another, that was pretty obnoxious.

Sam liked to blatantly ignore all the secrets he kept from Dean.

Strangely enough what concerned him most was that their relationship as brothers was inherently tinged with big brother, the responsible one, and little brother, the one who the older brother is responsible for. It was why Dean never told him what was going on in his head -- because when he was twelve and his little brother was eight and needed him for stability, he couldn’t tell Sam that he had doubts, too. At twenty-eight and twenty-three that shouldn't have been relevant anymore, but it was, and Sam knew he'd have to go through pains to prove to Dean just how unnecessary that was now.

If there weren't any demons lurking out there in the dark waiting to do god knew what to his brother, Dean wouldn't have come back to the cabin. He would have skipped town in the middle of the day when a surge of irrational panic lanced his chest in the middle of hammering in a nail and he smashed his thumb and thought in between curses, _Haven't been to New Mexico in awhile_. Demons lurked, and Dean stayed. Commitment wasn't actually his weak point.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam was hot. It stunned Dean how much making out with him had gotten him off. If sex with Sam was all like that, who needed one night stands? The whole guilt factor was a turnoff. It was not enough of a turnoff to hold up against the willingness and availability of Sam’s body when Sam was stepping into his space and taking hold of him, searching his lips and encouraging him on. The inevitability of Sam’s acceptance wore down on him, and Dean didn’t have deep reserves where sex was concerned.

In fact, four days later, without telling Sam, Dean went and had himself a medical exam. He charged it to a card. He stopped by the bar and had a couple rounds on his way home and got up to the cabin in the evening. He held up the printout when he came in the door, one of those broad sheets of paper with perforated edges to guide it through the printer. Proof, but no boasting.

Sam read over the sheet the same way Dean used to read his report cards, and he made a show of looking over it seriously for quite awhile before putting it down.

He pulled Dean in for a kiss, the paper placed on their table, and his other hand on the back of his brother's neck.

Okay, check -- no syphilis.

Just chlamydia. That'd clear up in a few days.

HIV negative, and that was lucky.

Dean had gotten used to making out with Sam. It was relief not to have any serious diseases that would punt a cramp in that. It wasn't until he was actually in the waiting room, waiting to see a doctor, which he never did unless he was in the ER -- it wasn't until then that it had actually occurred to Dean that he might have AIDS. He had managed to avoid that thought through years of promiscuity.

Honestly, Sam had been a bit worried as well. Given all the women Dean slept with, the possibility of Dean coming out HIV positive had been...well. Not necessarily huge, but there, and the fact that it was there at all had concerned the younger Winchester. 

Having said all that -- no sex until the clamydia cleared up. Of course. (If then.) At least that wasn't transferable by kissing.

But then, if Dean had had anything that was transferable by kissing, Sam would've already contracted it. Dean's tongue was getting familiar with Sam's mouth. He found Sam slipping into more and more of his fantasies. The idea of actually having sex didn't seem unreal or far off anymore. Still alien, maybe. Dean could read when Sam's body wasn't really into it, was just going through the motions as a courtesy to him.... If that was all it ever was, Dean wouldn't have taken him seriously. But, it wasn’t.

Sam found he actually enjoyed kissing Dean -- which was odd, slightly disturbing, and sort of pleasant at the same time. He wasn't the one who was particularly concerned with the fact that they were brothers. Yeah, it was weird, but what about them wasn't? Dean had been tied to him since he was six months old, and he didn't see that changing any time soon. Dean was all over him -- every part of his body, every part of his psyche. He'd been shaped by Dean, and the idea of Dean being a presence in the area of him that was sexual, well...

Some part of him, the part that had gone to college, would actually pause to whisper 'incest', but the rest of him just accepted it as an eventuality of Dean being in every sector of his life.

What was actually more difficult for Sam was divorcing love from sex, because while Dean was undoubtedly the most important person in his life, and he loved him more than words could say, he loved him in a brotherly way, not a romantic way, and Sam was having trouble working himself up to the idea of having sex with someone he wasn't in love with. It wasn't that he didn't think he wouldn't enjoy it -- he knew just how good sex could feel; it was just that love and sex were so intimately entwined, lust and affection, hands and words, he had never bothered to divorce the two.

Dean walked a dangerous line with Sam. He knew it. He felt the danger of it, because he had more to lose. If things went wrong, really wrong, Sam had another world to escape into. If Dean took advantage of Sam's concessions, he'd lose any lingering respect he'd ever had for himself. If John ever, ever found out, it was Dean who would lose the most of his father's respect. John knew Dean better than whatever Sam could say. 

Dean gripped the front of Sam's shirt in both hands, pulling Sam closer and pulling himself up a little, moving with Sam's body while their mouths made indiscretions. Even with all the risks involved, Dean wanted this. Words were easy. Dean lied too much himself to put weight in words. Sex? For Dean, that was real. What came through in sex was what was there: fleeting passion or a romantic kind of affection. Dean blurred the lines between love and sex in a different mix than Sam.

Sam drew in to him, leaning down to let their tongue slide against one another, against teeth and over lips. Kissing a guy, if anything, was the other weird part. Sam's sexual compass was oriented towards girls, end of statement. He'd never kissed a guy, or even been turned on by a guy. He had absolutely no issue with people who had. It just wasn't his bag of sexual preference. 

Dean was far more aggressive a kisser than any of the girls Sam had kissed, and when Sam kissed Dean it was almost always deep and intense. At few days ago it had been just weird, but Sam was growing used to it -- he was even beginning to find the notion appealing.

Growing into this new dimension of their relationship would take some time. Which is why Sam wanted to hold off on the sex thing for awhile.

Dean had thought it would be strange to kiss a guy. He imagined it as a totally different experience, one akin to kissing an animal of a different species. That turned out untrue, and it wasn't just because Sam was kind of a woman sometimes. Kissing Sam was different because it was Sam. Kissing Sam, Dean almost understood those people who said kids should wait until they got married to have sex. He'd flirted briefly with that kind of experience before, but even if he loved Cassie, making it with her didn't hold half the significance of kissing Sam. Maybe Dean had meant to make her a bigger part of his life, back then, but things never got that far. Just playing tonsil hockey with Sam, not even on the level with oral sex, impacted every aspect of Dean's life in a real and immediate way. That total involvement was a big part of why it was so much of a turn on.

There was just so much background to every kiss. Twenty-three years of background, and every single minute was part of it. Everything from the night of that first fire, to throwing mud at each other, to spooning in sleep in a little motel bed, to Sam crying into Dean’s stomach, to Sam burning himself on the stove, to fighting and biting and loving and hating and tugging and teaching and playing and everything else. The sexual aspect had obviously only arisen recently, but every year, every interaction colored just kissing, the way they kissed, and the way they seemed to know when the other was going to move. 

Sam was a little surprised by how he could predict the movements of his brother's tongue, as if he had some great knowledge of it, and the way Dean knew the same of him. The context differed from speaking at the same time or a life-and-death struggle; he never would have anticipated it.

He had to give credit where credit was due -- their kisses were thoroughly intense.

Dean stepped back when just-a-kiss reached its natural conclusion. "Better start dinner." Otherwise, it'd be nacho cheese dip with no nachos over cold canned vegetables.

Since Sam had gotten back, food on the road had been every man for himself. Sam could've starved to death in the passenger seat of the Impala and Dean still would've been munching his Cheetos. Here at the cabin, Dean had taken on the personal ambition of fattening Sam up and cooked more than his share of the meals, but he had his limits (even if he was quick to point out Sam's utilitarian cooking, like most college students', kind of sucked).

Sam grumbled, because even he knew his cooking was less than great, and he preferred Dean's cooking by leaps and bounds. Still, he set to the task, because they took turns, and it was his turn tonight.

He managed to find a magnet to pin Dean's STD test to the fridge, as if it were a list of good grades, and seemed pleased at how ridiculously twisted that was.

Dean blew out air and pretended not to be amused. Underneath, he wasn't exactly _amused_ , but he got a perverse little kick out of Sam bill boarding the condition of his penis. 'Taking it slow' or not, it suggested a certain _interest_. Dean and his dick were on really good terms. In some tough, lonely times, it'd been his best friend. 

Dean waited at the table while Sam cooked on the kitchenette, drumming his hands on the edge of the table to the beat of "For Whom the Bell Tolls." There wasn't much premeditation when the drumming stopped and he came out with it:

"I have been _really_ well behaved."

He made a face like he couldn't believe that. Lips and jaw and neck and ears and hands on Sam's body with clothing in between, no more than that -- and now a medical exam. If Sam was a girl, it never would've gone down like this. Dean probably deserved a medal. Dean eyed Sam's back, considered his situation. Exactly what sort of compensation did good behavior deserve...? 

Sam had to blink at that. Somehow he expected to turn around and find Dean with a wagging tail and a hopeful expression affixed on the doggie biscuit jar. 

"What, are you asking for a treat?"

Dean's eyes wandered the walls. He smiled from ear to ear, that smarmy smile he got when he was perving. There were _many_ possible answers to that question, and he entertained a couple of them briefly. 'And after the spanking, the oral sex' meant _nothing_ in the language of Sam's people. 'Treat' sounded about right, though. It took Dean a couple seconds to figure what would be an increment in 'taking it slow'.

"Yeah... Gimmie somethin'. An armpit, an elbow, a foot." Dean felt secure in his ability to get freaky with _any_ part of Sam's anatomy. 

"Have you ever read Walt Whitman?" Sam asked in response to that, and apparently Dean had messed something up in the translation from smarmy-speak to geekboy-speak, because the wrong connection had clearly been made.

Dean got suspicious. Of _course_ he hadn't read Walt Whitman.

"Who's that?"

"He was a poet." He glanced back at Dean over his shoulder. "Just reminded me of something." He looked back down at the chopping board lest half a finger end up in their food. "There was this one poem he wrote, called 'The Body Electric', where he sings the praises of every part of the body, even the parts most people don't think of as beautiful, like the armpit and the scapula."

_Dude. What's a scapula...?_

Dean folded his arms over his chest and tried to digest this. He got the uncomfortable feeling that his ability to get play hinged on it. With no option but to get play from Sam, the geekspeak he'd usually blow off took on disquieting importance. 

"I dunno about writin' poetry, but I might have gotten along with the guy." A smirk. (Reaching that conclusion took a year off Dean's life.)

Sam just sort of smirked to himself a little, because all of a sudden Dean was _putting up with_ him, instead of teasing him all the time. It was a welcome change, and Sam wondered if he could draw the whole 'not-having-sex' thing out even longer to preserve that. He realized if he did that, even _he_ would be forced to make some kind of joke comparing himself to a woman and he _was not going there_.

"Thought you might," Sam responded, somehow having successfully turned the conversation away from sex, though he had to wonder exactly how long that would last with Dean representing the other half of the equation.

Dean saw what Sam did. He was uneducated; he wasn't stupid. And he thought…. See if he ever _tried_ again. Maybe he'd smoke cigarettes, instead. They'd kill him just as fast. Dean was damn sure the appropriate response to him seriously considering Walt Whatever was something more like 'Do me now.' Grumpy thunderheads rolled into his state of mind. Had he just sold out?

Sam, however, was playing with his options. He moved from the countertop, walking over to the table, and around behind Dean's chair. He slipped one hand down, over Dean's neck and up to his jaw gently, leaning down and dropping the dishrag over his brother's lap.

"Stay still." He said, and moved his other hand down, over Dean's shoulder, to the waistband of his jeans, flipped the clasp of Dean’s belt and undid the top button with little to-do. The zipper made an inappropriately loud noise in the small cabin.

Dean sucked a breath in through his nose, awash in confusion and sudden, sharp hope aching red in his stomach. His pulse dropped straight to his crotch. A part of him remained stormy, on principle, maybe expecting Sam to say 'Just kidding!' He worked his jaw and swallowed. He stayed still, eyes roaming the far wall. He wondered if Sam _remembered_ he was the kind of guy that went commando.

Sam felt his fingers dip below the shadow of Dean's pants, and he felt the tense muscles of his brother's belly, the softness just below the muscles, over that vulnerable section just before the apex of the legs. Just below that was the section where his brother's thighs joined his hips, and between was the piece of him that Sam seemed to be seeking.

Sam's hand had never encountered a cock not his own, but he had never approached anything new with trepidation. He had always had a certain amount of fearlessness about him, and his finger tips played around the base of his brother's length, moving slowly, shifting to encourage him to hardness.

He turned his head to kiss the open expanse of neck on the other side of Dean's neck, opposite the side that his hand was resting on.

Dean's brow worked through conflicting emotions. He drew a breath in through his lips. The blood was rushing to cock and his body felt light. His fingers curled against the palm of his right hand. _Stay still_. His dick was thickening between his legs and that wasn't unfamiliar, was the most familiar thing in the world, but the calloused fingers exploring it weren't his own. A quiver of apprehension lanced through him. This was the test. This was where Sam could say 'Huh. Not so much with the penis.' Dean really had no history of meeting that kind of rejection. Most people who had their hands on Dean's gear had established their approval of male genitalia years before.

Sam's hand didn't stop, and didn't pull away. He shifted Dean's dick out between the open zipper of his pants, underneath the dishrag -- because there would be a predictable mess otherwise, and Sam was nothing if not overly analytical of any novel situation (something that had, despite his good looks, made him a rather not-hit with the girls at college, who had been looking for more getting drunk and wild than the guy who'd always remember to do the cat's litter).

Sam felt his brother hardening as expected, but still felt some brief flair of surprise and a pleased feeling. It was a motion of power. Not that power had ever been a thing with them -- Sam had always been happy to let Dean be in charge of everything, that was just How It Was, after all. Dean took care of him, and helped him, and healed him, and teased him, and he was just everything Big Brother. Still, to have a moment like this, when he realized just how much Dean wanted him, felt for him, and that was...well, it was powerful. The fact that he had his hand down said brother's pants...well, it didn't disturb him as much as it probably should have.

Sam continued kissing up Dean's neck, tongue flicking out to press against skin, and his hand wrapped around Dean's erection.

Dean closed his eyes focused on the kisses against his neck, the heat and slick of Sam's lips and the shiver left behind as they moved on. He knew if he got wrapped up in the heat between his legs, in Sam's dry palm against his _favorite_ body part, he'd come too fast, again, and that'd be it. His breath choked in his throat, a needy sound. He bit his lower lip and breathed through his nose a second. He could smell Sam, that shampoo Sam used, familiar scents he'd never expected to sexualize. 

It was hard for Dean to let his guard down to Sam when it came to talking, to that inner world of his he protected so carefully, even now. Sam's hand on his cock, that was a different kind of submission, still intimate. It was different to let Sam see him like this than some girl he knew one night. Sam would remember what Dean looked like with his lips parted, the raw wanting, and the way his face flinched when something hit him just right…. Sam would remember it tomorrow. He'd remember it next week. Sam would have it for the rest of his life, the face that Dean saved for faceless strangers.

For Sam, for a person like Sam, that was what was sexy, what was a turn on -- that intimacy. _Knowing_ someone. The funny thing was how much he knew Dean already, and how he'd never seen that as sexually attractive before. He wondered if he ever could see it as consistently sexual, or if it would always be something that only struck him at moment's like this, when he was touching Dean in a decidedly sexual manner. In between those times, it just felt like they were brothers. 

That was just one of those complications, and it made Sam begin to understand why incest was not on the top of the list of sins that people wanted to commit.

He lowered his head to the crook of Dean's neck, and his tongue pressed to his brother's skin, running up the chords of his throat, to the apex of his jaw, leaving a moist trail that shivered cold in the air of the cabin. Sam's fingers never ceased their movement, having only his own experiences to go on. He moved his hand like he liked to be touched, like he liked to touch himself, his fingertips rubbing close and hard, against the vein that ran along the underside of Dean's erection. The heel of his palm pressed against the top, and he moved steadily back and forth, with enough friction to be pleasing, but not enough to be painful.

Dean thought _shit_ while white light burst behind his eyes short of orgasm, a fleeting high that echoed in his cock. It would have been easier on a bed, more comfortable if he didn't have to brace his foot against the floor to keep from sliding out of his chair, if his hands had something to do or something to grab. The awkward situation amplified the rush. Dean wondered if Sam had ever masturbated with lube. He wondered if Sam had a cock ring, because Dean had one in the bottom of a side pocket of his bag. He wondered how much sex his little brother had had, not for the first time, but, now, with a strongly vested interest. Thoughts like that took him close to the edge, with Sam's hand and Sam's tongue doing clever things. For Dean, it wasn't about the sin. It was about sharing himself in the only way he could stomach, leaving himself open and not being betrayed. There were a lot of things Dean wouldn't give, yet, but he could share this. 

Sam's hand on his neck held his chin up, so that Dean couldn't look down at himself, leaving plenty of space for Sam's lips to trace over, and they took full advantage of that. The hand in his brother's pants moved up to the head of his erection, thumb pressing gentle against the slit, before sliding back down to encircle the base, hand tightening slightly around him.

Sam moved his head up a little, lips grazing by the lobe of his brother's ear.

"Dean..." he murmured quietly, having learned that for his brother this was not a disembodied experience, that he wanted to _know_ it was Sam doing these things to him. God, Sam would never have expected this, never would have expected that Dean wanted this from him. He felt almost sorry he hadn't noticed before, sorry that he hadn't noticed Dean's self-hatred.

Dean's thoughts said _Sam..._ , but in that tone he got when he was saying _Sam, do_ not _start that emotional bullshit with me_. If Dean started thinking, he'd still get off, washed out with guilt and feeling sick. 

His breath came quick. His lips were dry. His body shuddered; his vision flashed black, then white; his breath groaned out from his lungs-- he came into the dishrag, cock pumping beneath Sam's hand, hips moving in little jerks.

For a minute, Dean forgot everything except the comfortable warmth of his brother's body.

Sam hadn't meant it like that -- he'd simply wanted to enhance the experience for him, to give him what he wanted. His hand continued to move slowly, until Dean's hips had ceased to thrust, and Dean was still again.

He moved his head down again, kissing over the side of Dean’s neck again, slowly. He didn't say anything more, having no wish to turn this into something uncomfortable for Dean -- because it was _for_ Dean, not for himself. This was about giving back to his brother, about caring for him after he had cared for Sam for so long. He lifted the soiled rag and shifted Dean back into his pants again.

Dean appreciated the quiet. Anything more than the physical from this close was too much; painful. Dean related almost exclusively through sex. It left him vulnerable, like an open wound, with the danger of words rushing out he couldn't take back later. The faceless girls didn't care about his feelings as much as his cock, he could be as open or shut off with them as he wanted, he could lay quiet and feel open and it was like there was no one to see it. With Cassie, he'd bleed emotions in a way that he never did with anyone. She didn't use it against him in their stupid, superficial fights. With Sam...right now, it was better to suture himself up. He hadn't gotten over that sudden loss: no goodbyes, no phone calls; the uncertainty that it might happen. It meant more, with Sam. Fights with Sam were never superficial, and he didn't know for sure he wouldn't end up with another chestful of rock salt. Sam kind of had a temper.

Yeah. Dean knew Sam loved the hell out of him. That was enough.

Sam's head rested low, next to Dean's, and he shifted both arms, until they were both around his brother's shoulders. He moved after a moment, walking around to the front of him, leaning down to kiss Dean slowly, then finally took a step back and walked to sit opposite Dean.

"I worry, is all." He said, finally addressing the issues inherent in all this. "It's like when people are friends who then start seeing one another -- they worry about their friendship if the relationship doesn't work out, you know? With us it's even bigger. We're brothers. If, for some reason, it doesn't work, down the road...are things going to weird? Are they going to be awkward? You're my big brother. I don't want to go through something like that with you." He shrugged a little. 

"That's why I'm drawing things out. I don't mean to come off as some kind of...kind of tease. It's that before we go there, somewhere we can't come back from, I want us both to be sure."

Dean pushed himself up in the chair, adjusted himself through his jeans, and wondered why Sam had to be a buzz kill with his legitimate issues and his thinking.

"Valid."

Normally, with Sam, Dean thought with his head. Sam had that kind of influence on him that held up his tendency to cowboy through life doing what his gut told him. Things had changed. They changed when Sam kissed him against the wall out back of the bar and Dean already wasn't sure he could go back. Dean saw Sam as his brother, and he saw Sam as sexual, and he could see those things at the same time. It'd always been that way. Every time he encouraged Sam to do something nasty to something five foot four and good to go, it was because Sam was a freaking stud and Dean knew it and he didn't know how Sam didn't see it. They had different values, was all. That was fine, before, but now Dean wanted to get his values all over Sam's body and it was, maybe, an issue. 

"It's also that I'm adjusting. I mean, I never considered you like this before, and now, obviously, I'm beginning to." Sam smiled a little bit. "But you're Dean. There's a level of importance there that I can't even--...I don't know if I could--..." He shook his head. He was, for once, without words. "You're just Dean. You're sort of _beyond_ everything to me." He turned his gaze away, some of the confidence he'd displayed beginning to slip. "It's difficult to walk out of the role of being the person always trying to measure up. Who did I have to measure myself against besides you?" He shrugged. "Maybe I just haven't been clear enough, but you intimidate me. I can't help but approach this with some trepidation." What if the realities of Dean's crush weren't as good as the fantasies? What if after a few weeks monogamy with a guy just wasn't as good as the two girls down at the local bar who were up to the idea of a threesome? Sam had doubts, some of them legitimate, some of them silly, but they were the doubts that everyone approached when doing that awkward dance to enter into a new relationship. Except in this case they were _big_ and _scary_ because they were _Dean_ , and god if he couldn't imagine his world without Dean in it. Sam knew Dean thought he didn't need him, but that just wasn't true. Sam liked his space, and his normal life, but that had never meant that he didn't want his family around, to see them every now and again.

Dean let Sam talk, for once. He wouldn't admit it, not out loud, but it freaked him out, too -- Sam could read it off him, subtle and already dismissed. 

Dean didn't do the whole mating dance; not if it took more than three drinks and a couple of lies. The one person he'd loved, really loved, thought about sticking by for a long time...she'd been an accident. She put his world in order and kept him calling back, driving all night to show up at her dorm with takeout and a six pack and a movie, _because_ she didn't need him, already knew where she was going and wasn't looking for anything except a partner, and he saw that, and he got it, and he knew he had to go the extra mile or it was on his head when she moved on. Sam was a little like that. Sam had the life and the plans and the future. 

"I am pretty awesome." Dean hooked his arm over the back of his chair and flashed a shit-eating grin. He wasn't blowing Sam off. If Sam couldn't get under his skin, it would've looked that way, but Sam could, and was prone to. He was...internalizing it, definitely.

"And a jackass, clearly." Sam still rolled his eyes and stood up -- which was, of course, opposed to what any other person would do, which was storm out the cabin and never come back. He was pretty used to his brother's posturing. 

He moved back to the kitchen countertop, continuing his preparing of dinner after tossing the dishrag into the laundry pile and pausing to wash his hands.

"I guess I'm just saying that I'm going to need some reassurance sometimes too. I'm...I kinda need you to talk to me sometimes. Not all the time, and I know you think it's just some college bullshit, but it's not. I'm asking you because I need it, so...I dunno. Think about that I guess." He shrugged a little, working on their meal. When it came to defining boundaries, Sam was probably the best the Winchester's had (and even he wasn't all that great at it; Jess had had to learn to draw lines and push or pull him when she needed to, because of his utter lack of ability to understand societal norms and expectations). Sam knew that he'd have to be the one to tell Dean where not to go, where he needed to go, how far to go, and in what capacity. He knew his brother would be there for him, because he did listen -- didn't talk well, but he listened. It was awkward to shoulder that much responsibility in a relationship, but that was sort of the reality of becoming intimate with Dean.

Dean let that saturate. If Sam was just his brother, it wasn't Dean's responsibility to field his emotional conflicts and it wasn't Sam's responsibility to take on Dean's. To be there, yeah, to support each other, they did that, but there were different social responsibilities when it came to lovers, and Dean saw it; fair enough. A frown creased his brow and he pointed out: "It's not like I've _never_ talked to you, Sam."

Dean talked. Sometimes. It was usually like giving himself an appendectomy, but he talked. He just wanted that there, for the record.

Sam turned around from the countertop, looking over at his brother. "I know that. I'm not accusing you of anything Dean...I'm asking you. I'm just telling you what I need. I have my own insecurities." He shrugged a little. "Thing're just...gonna be different. So I'm just asking you. It doesn't have to be sudden or immediate. I don't want just sex. That's never been my thing."

Dean met his eyes for a minute, glanced away to take it in. This was what he wanted; didn't mean it wasn't scarier than a hoodoo zombie choking the life out of him. It would be easy to say he'd try and then not, but that wouldn't cut it this time. 'Brothers with benefits' sounded great on the surface, but it wouldn't be like that. Sam wasn't a guy like that. Dean didn't want him to be, but it would've been a hell of a lot simpler.

Sam turned back to the countertop, putting on some old mitts to pull their heated food out of the less than functional oven. "You don't have to respond right away or anything. You can think about it." He crouched down, pulling out the dubious creation. "...I mean, I understand, why this isn't exactly what you wanted." For the first time in this one sided conversation, Sam's voice changed just slightly -- barely a change, really. That slight waverance that his voice got when he doubted himself, or when he thought that he couldn't or shouldn't be saying or doing what he was. It was a small thorn of hurt that his brother seemed to want to be sexually intimate but didn't really care to be emotionally intimate. 

He had no desire to _goad_ Dean into anything.

Dean rolled his eyes. He stared pointedly at the plastic trashcan he'd bought them, next to the door, and sucked in a breath through his nose. It could have been harder. Dean felt good, through and through, his body post-orgasm lazy. 

"...that is what I _want_ , Sam." He glanced back to him, taking in the oven mitts, the attempt at a home cooked meal. "Hell, believe me. That'd be..." He trailed off, unable to find the words. _Talk about intimidating_. "...don't write me off yet, okay?" 

Sam let it rest unspoken that this was the kind of thing he was talking about. He needed things like reassurances every now and again, and he'd like them without Dean getting all edgy and unpleasant in the process.

(Sam was so determined to not be the "woman" in this relationship, but god help him if Dean would ever take the initiative in things like this.)

"I'd never write you off." He said, smiling a bit.

"Yeah, well..." Dean shrugged. He wrote himself off enough for both of them. The urge to crack a joke was stifling. "You're a scary son of a bitch. Don't undersell yourself." It probably wasn't what Sam wanted to hear, but Dean needed to say it. He didn't want Sam to read it off him and take it the wrong way.

Dean had measured himself against John, growing up. He'd wanted to do everything with him, and just like him. He would sit outside in the grass and watch him work on the car and help him wash it, some of his earliest memories. He asked him about all his old medals and memorized what each one meant. 

When Sam came into the family, Dean hadn't been jealous, not exactly. He'd been excited, because John was excited. After the fire, it didn't matter how he felt about Sam because Sam was Dean’s to take care of whether Dean was proud or angry or jealous or charmed, but over the years it became apparent that anything Dean had to go the extra mile for came easy to Sam. Sam was special. He was excellent. For good or bad, he stood out. If Sam wanted to talk about someone _beyond_ everything, Dean would say it was him, not Dean. Dean could see it in Sam way before the visions started, something powerful. Dean still measured himself against John, because Sam was on a whole different chart.

Sam moved, about to carry their meal to the table.

"Don't be scared," he said, "Not of me," and then stood stock still, the words triggering something in him, something strange. "...I didn't do it." He frowned darkly. "What?....I didn't do...The things I can do, it's not that..." He muttered to himself, and found he had to put the food down, lest he drop it on the floor. He lifted a hand to cover his eyes. "Oh God."

Dean sat up when the déjà vu hit him and was out of his chair and walking over as Sam sat the food down. 

"Sam...?" 

"I don't know." Sam shook his head. "It feels like I've...Like I've said that before. Told you not to be scared of me...and...I said other things but I can't quite remember what, like it's all jumbled up in there." He leaned over the counter. "My head hurts. What is this? What's happening to me?"

Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder, leaning in in concern, but leaving Sam his space to sort the headache out, watching him cautiously.

"You said it before," he confirmed. "Ride it out, man."

Dean had given up weeks ago on Sam remembering all the months Sam spent blacked out and figured not to push it. His own memories had grown hazier, little things missing here and there, although certain images stuck with him in living color.

Sam hissed a breath, but leaned into Dean's touch rather than away, taking the little piece of comfort he could. 

"I did...?" He shook his head, his eyes shut. "I remember...I remember..." He pushed. He pushed his mind to remember, wanting to _know_. His mind balked under the pressure, and he let out a short noise, but his stubborn determination never flagged. 

_See? Open your eyes. I brought you a present._

He cried out suddenly, in shock and horror, shoving himself away from the counter top suddenly, stumbling back.

"Whoa, whoa!"

Dean's hands hovered, ready to catch Sam if he lost his balance. He didn't know if Sam still wanted to be touched or if he'd come up disoriented from the flashbacks. It looked a lot like one of Sam's visions smacking him.

Sam stood there for a moment, breathing a little fast as he tried to process what he'd just thought he'd seen. Or heard, rather.

He swallowed hard.

"Get Dad on the phone," he said lowly, without looking up.

Dean stood there a second more, then threw his hands up and went to dig his cell phone out of his pants pocket. He flipped it open and auto-dialed John's new cell, put the phone up to his ear while keeping a wary eye on Sam.

John’s voice was insistent as always, because they didn't call one another in a situation like this unless it was truly necessary.

"Dean?" he asked, the faintest hint of worry beneath his soldier-like tone.

"Dad. Hey."

Now that he had John on the phone, Dean wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to say. He looked to Sam for a cue, glancing back at the phone because he knew John didn't book for nonprofessional pauses.

Sam held out his hand.

"Give it to me."

Dean balked at Sam giving orders without throwing him any information -- wasn't that what Sam was always bitching to John about? The whole situation sat wrong, and Sam was damn serious, so Dean grudgingly walked over to hand the phone to Sam without a fight. He waited there to see what Sam so abruptly had to say to John, his hands at his side and his head kind of turned to the right.

Sam took the phone from his hand when it was proffered, pulling it to his ear, and Dean listened to a one-sided conversation.

"Dad? Yeah. It's me." Sam’s eyes flickered around the room like they always did when he was agitated. "I saw the demon. No! No! Not now. I mean, I just remembered it." He sighed in frustration. " _No_. In the hospital. He was there, when I woke up. Because I just _remembered it_ , Dad, I didn't know about it before!" He began to pace the floor. "He was standing next to my bed. My hospital bed. My eyes were shut." He sighed again, because their exchanges were never pleasant. "Because I just _know_ , okay? Anyways. He said something. I can't remember all of it, it's all blurry. But at the end, when I was coming to -- he said...He said 'I forgive you. Open your eyes -- I brought you a present,' " he said, floundering for the exact wording. "Jesus, do I _sound_ like I know what it means? He was standing next to my _bed_ , Dad. Well I don't know!" He slammed his hand down on the table. "I don't know that _either_. He just _said_ it, and I woke up, and I saw _her_." There was a long pause, and Sam swallowed hard. "Okay. Okay. Yeah...I said okay. Alright. Call us when you have something." He stood there for a moment, then lowered the phone, snapping it shut.

 _I forgive you? What the hell does_ that _mean? Sounds like... Shit. I can't think about this right now. Sam's a powder keg._

Dean grimaced self-consciously.

Dean might have had some tact in the situation, if he had any control over it. Even if he watched his thoughts nine seconds out of ten there was always that tenth one where something slipped through. Dean was fairly skilled at not thinking, as twenty-something men went, but not skilled enough to Not Think twenty-four hours a day. 

Sam grunted, running a hand through his hair.

"It's fair. I'm thinking the same thing. What the _fuck_ could that have meant..." He put the phone on the table, the hand that had run through his hand ending up holding on to his own shoulder as he began to pace. "Why would a _demon_ bring me a _present_? And is that what those things are supposed to be? Mom? Jess? _Presents?_ What? Like some kind of sick cat bringing dead birds or something?" 

Dean reached up to scratch his head, made that face he did when he was actually trying to think.

"No... Mom and Jess, he said they were 'in the way'. And this... It didn't happen on November second. This was different." It started making sense in a way that hadn't made sense when he tried to put all three together. _So what was this one? Some kind of sick joke?_

Sam lifted a hand, covering his mouth.

"Dean, she woke me up." He stopped his pacing, feeling thoroughly sick. "Was that...I mean...was that it?"

"...I forgive you. Open your eyes...." Dean repeated. "You think you were that far gone it took somethin' like that?" _I forgive you_. That was the weird part, the real kicker. Dean didn't like it one bit. It kicked up a protective instinct in him something fierce. 

Sam shook his head, sinking down slowly to sit on the edge of the bed. "I don't know.... I don't know."

Dean paced four steps in front of the bed, stopped, and glanced Sam's way. 

"Look, Sam, we know this guy has plans for you. He said as much. And we've got plans for him." He shrugged his shoulders up, holding his hands out. "Ours are probably a little simpler than his, what? Bullet to the head. But we'll get the bastard."

Sam looked up at Dean, with the look he'd always had, ever since he was small, that meant he knew that Dean had all the answers and could solve all the world's problems and make everything alright again.

"And how many people are going to die in the mean time? And why plans? For me? ...for _what?_ What do I have that a demon could want?"

Dean looked back at Sam like Sam was crazy.

 _I dunno. Lemmie get some_ paper _and I'll try an' make a list._

Dean pressed his lips to a line and studied the floorboards off to his left while he hoped something came to him that could put this in order, give them some kind of working theory.

"...maybe that's somethin' we haven't thought about enough. If we can figure out what he wants, we can beat him to the punch."

Sam sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah….That'd be good.... Also, I'd just like to know." He heard Dean's thoughts, though. A list? He glanced up at his brother wonderingly, not missing the sarcasm, as if the answers were there, but just hidden away. What would be on that list?

Dean smiled at Sam, kind of cocky, kind of reassuring. "I bet we won't find it taggin' around behind the thing."

For over a year, now, they'd been following John while John followed the demon. The way Dean saw it, that was two steps behind. He wondered if John was starting to realize that, too. If Dean had picked up on it, it was a sure bet. Finding the demon and shooting it in the head at the scene of the crime hadn't worked out the way they'd planned.

"Yeah..." But where did that leave them? Sam didn't know. _Saying_ you wanted to be ahead of the enemy was one thing -- actually _being_ one step ahead was another thing entirely. What did they do? Where did they even start?

Sam lifted one hand, fingers twisting into the material on the front of Dean's shirt, just letting his arm dangle there.

Dean smirked. "I bet Dad's already on it. Like he'd tell us, right?"

John was useless for that kind of thing. Dean was sure the guy kept thinking about what Sam had said on the phone long after he hung up on him, but John wouldn’t mention it. Dean considered a second and added, "Man, you need a haircut. It's like ' _The Shaggy Dog_ '." He reached out and lifted one long piece of Sam's hair for a critical inspection.

Sam's hair had grown quite a bit with the months he'd been in the hospital bed, and the month and a bit that had passed since then. It was true that it was even longer than Sam usually preferred it. Hair wasn't really on Sam's mind at the moment.

Still, Dean didn't know how to go straight at a situation that wasn't already straightforward. Such an approach defied his nature.

"...you really wanna crunch this tonight?"

Sam's fingers tightened, and he pulled his brother down a little, slowly.

Dean sank with his grasp, letting Sam guide him. His critical look shifted to one more concerned and he let the strands of hair fall from his fingers. 

Sam shifted back on the bed, moving on to his knees. He leaned up and kissed Dean, open mouthed and instant and insistent and needing. His fingers stayed tangled in Dean's shirt, his other hand moving up to press against the side of his brother's head.

Dean's hand closed on the back of Sam's head and he swallowed him up into it, kissing him deeply and kissing him messy. He guessed he should have expected Sam to be the kind of guy to go physical for comfort, the way Sam looked at him when he was really lost -- but he'd thought Sam would beat a retreat into himself for awhile and try to work things out. Dean was more used to that kind of behavior. It'd taken Sam months to admit to his visions. He didn't question it too much, though. This was its own kind of escape and a refuge easy to accommodate.

For Sam, it was the easiest and least painful way of getting his big brother's arms around him. Once, that had been normal. Once, it had been safety and comfort all rolled into one. Now he suspected if he had just held Dean, his brother would have shoved him away and told him to stop being a girl, and he knew something like that would hurt like claws across his chest.

Sam had fought for four years to disentangle himself from all this mess -- now, given the chance, it appeared he was diving headfirst back in, and he could curse himself for doing it.

He pulled Dean on to the bed with him and let himself collapse back; covering himself with his brother's form and intended to lose himself in what would inevitably be a mistake.

Dean didn't realize a lot of things, at first, caught in the heady possibility of having Sam's body under him, a tremulous sensation down in his abdomen as he straddled him, folding his knees underneath himself to keep his weight off his brother. After a few more ambitious kisses he lost Sam's lips and kissed and nipped up his jaw, stubble rough and rude against his lips. He ran his tongue along the edge of Sam's ear, bit his earlobe gently, just enough, hand steadying Sam's head as his mouth negotiated Sam's skin, licked his ear, fleeting, and pressed a kiss against his neck, reciprocating a little of what he'd gotten earlier.

Dean's ministrations were hot and clearly impassioned, and the energy and involvement his brother gave him stunned Sam. It felt like all lights were on him and no where else, like for once he had the entirely of his brother, no father's shadow looming between them, no hunting to lure them, no arguments about life and life's choices. 

Now, Sam was laying on a bed with Dean over him, the slight impression of his brother's weight against his body, and Dean’s lips and tongue and teeth moving over him so fervently. 

It was everything he was looking for. A distraction, powerful, mind-derailing. Comfort, sudden and all consuming. 

Dean kissed his way down Sam's neck to bite provocatively at the juncture of his neck and his shoulder. His free hand tugged up Sam's shirt. He wanted to lose some clothes, but he paused, raised his head, the fabric knotted in his hand. 

"You sure this is your kind of thing...?"

"Kind of thing?" Sam queried, because as far as he could tell they were necking, which he didn't think was extreme enough to be called a 'kind of thing'. 

Dean began to say something and stopped. He didn’t place it. "Nevermind." If Sam was good, Dean was good. He worked Sam's long-sleeve shirt up over his waist, sliding his hand out from behind his head to help leverage it off of him. If Sam wanted a distraction, Dean could be distracting.

Sam sucked in a breath of air as he felt his shirt pulled up, and he prepared to use that breath to say something else, but then his shirt was being pulled over his head. Why should he say stop anyways? He was committed to this, wasn't he? He had willingly entered into a sexual relationship with his brother, why not actually have sex? It wasn't like having sex was anything new to him, nothing to spook him, certainly.

So, why? Why was he suddenly hesitant in this?

Sam couldn't even put his finger on it. He was a slow to warm up type of person, sure -- he liked to take time to think about things, he liked to consider all his options, but he'd already consented to this. 

Dean had been itching to see some skin since Sam had started making out with him, and Sam did not disappoint. Even if he wasn't as broad shouldered or thick muscled as he had been before the coma, Sam was one hell of a guy to look at if you were at all into naked people. (Hey, who wasn't?) Dean inhaled deep for a different reason, rested his palm against Sam's abdomen and watched as he felt out the ridges and depressions in his muscle as his hand rose slowly. _Acres and acres..._ Dean chuckled and ducked his head. _Man..._ After a pause, he raised his eyes to look at Sam. He couldn't read minds, but Sam was tense under his hand.

In fact, Sam's muscles seemed to fall more under the category of rigid than tense. It wasn't at all the same as the tensing and flexing that tended to occur when the body was in the throes of pleasure. This was more like stone still.

Sam felt like a world class asshole. Getting upset, goading his brother on, and then realizing he didn't have the balls to go through with it.

"I'm gettin' the feeling you're not all that into this." Dean rapped his knuckles against Sam's abs in demonstration, offering up half a smile.

Sam shook his head, going lax against the sheets.

"I'm sorry." He didn't open his eyes, because he felt pretty damned foolish, and somewhat ashamed.

Dean's smile fell as it went unnoticed. He sat back as he sized Sam up critically. It was discomforting to think Sam thought he would get offended.

"You made a bad call. It happens." 

Sam opened his eyes a crack, a hint of reluctance there. He was pulling on Dean pretty harsh in all this -- flipping out, throwing up, reading his mind, kissing him behind bars, making him get STD tests (okay, that was a legitimate one), and now acting like he wanted sex when he really just wanted comfort. Dean was a sexual creature, and Sam knew that Dean hadn't had any sex in the last week other than from his own hand and the hand job Sam just gave him. He would never doubt Dean's promise not to sleep with other people.

"You aren't mad?"

Sam kind of wouldn't blame him if he was.

"...don't get me wrong, you jerked me off today and I _do_ appreciate that, and, if it was what got your stress out, I _would_ go down on you -- anything once, right? But, dude...if I was hard up to have sex with a _guy_ , I could _get_ a guy." Dean Winchester was of the solemn belief that he could pull anything: male, female, animal, plant, dead, and possibly mineral. "This isn't me tryin' to tap your ass, man."

Dean was a horn dog. He liked to hit it, and often. The idea that Sam thought he just _wanted his body_ or some shit like that...that was... _damn_. (Did he come off that way?) 

_Jeez. Awkward._

Dean half sat up, leaning back on his elbows, shaking his head a little.

Sam lifted one hand, stretching it out to touch his brother's face, fingertips tripping over Dean's lips and chin, tracing his jaw slowly. "I don't even know _what_ I'm thinking anymore." 

"Have I mentioned the fact that I'm going out of my mind and you might have to deal with my insanity while trying to establish some form of incestuous relationship with me? Because if I haven't, I should probably mention that now." His hand slowly came to rest against the side of Dean's face, the motion almost tender.

Dean considered it. 

"...I think I can work with that."

He smiled smug. Yes, even the insane weren't beyond the libido of Dean Winchester. 

No sex tonight, though. That was cool. But he wondered why Sam thought he wanted sex tonight when he already got off by something other than his hand for the first time in awhile, anyway. Sam seemed like a real weirdo sometimes.

Sam had the liberty of holding that information off from Dean, and the truth was Sam was officially freaked the fuck out by the entirety of his life, from the demon who liked to bring him dead-person presents to the brother he was considering sleeping with. It seemed he was only being given extremely minimal time to work through one huge emotional crisis before the next one hit.

Sam reached his hand back a little, cupping the back of Dean's neck, tugging him downwards, because now was officially cuddling like queers time.

Dean didn't realize what Sam wanted, at first. He didn't exactly have a 'cuddling like queers' mode. "The hell's this?" he grunted, pulled down against Sam's chest and half splayed out. Gears clicked in his mind and he navigated to a more comfortable position, thinking, _Hopeless_.

Sam didn't say anything in response to the thought, because there was no response, really. Dean didn't move away -- that was enough.

Sam shifted against his brother, until they were on their sides, facing one another, and Sam's forehead found Dean's sternum.

Dean threw an arm over him carelessly, but it tucked up against Sam alright. He looked down at Sam, amused. _Tryin’ to jump my bones is easier than this, hunh?_ Well, Dean worked for that kind of image. Just holding Sam...wasn't that bad. Like old times. Except Sam had his shirt off and Dean was touching skin and it was because Dean had been about to do something dirty to him, completely would have if Sam had been good for it. 

Within Sam, shock and trauma were breaking over him like waves, each time one rolled back out to sea, another came in and disrupted him even more. He wondered if he could just get his feet under him, could just pause long enough to find up and down, he might be able to be okay again. He'd taken care of himself for four years. It had been utter, then, because no one was going to come help him. He had been _able_. Now it seemed that circumstances beyond his control were moving him away from all that, and the most he could find for a lee was Dean, and his chest, and their bed. 

Sam wound his arms around Dean's waist, the loss of muscle giving them the gangly appearance they'd had in his youth, and he held on.

Even with a vague half-understanding of what had been going through Sam's mind, Dean felt the guilt twinging back underneath. This was where Sam needed a big brother, not a fuckbuddy, and Dean could've easily drawn the line on the wrong side. 

Unfortunately, for them, the line was thin and vague. Physical intimacy blended together, and while the more sexual aspects of it worried Sam, he wasn't turned off by them. While he felt nervous and bothered by the idea of becoming committed to a sexual relationship, something one could never back off from, he didn't find himself turned off or disgusted enough to _not_ be part of it. Not when it meant that he could be close to Dean and not feel like a fool.

Dean couldn't say if he had really never wanted more than this. When he was little he'd had the same dreams as any kid, playing with role-taking in his imagination: A policeman! A fireman! A race car driver! He'd gotten to live out one of his dreams, but it hadn't turned out like he'd expected. 

When Dean fired his first gun, at the age of six, he imagined himself in some far off jungle, enemy troops on all sides, him and his gun against the world, just like dad.

The first time Dean was hunted, he realized what a stupid fantasy that was, scraped and bloody with his back to the wall in the darkness, the sound of footsteps in the gravel outside the shed, pistol clenched in his clammy hands.

By the time he was twenty-two and Sam split on him, Dean was running out of dreams. When John disappeared and the idea of getting Sam back hit him, he bolted to it without a lot of forethought. It was a legitimate situation; Sam would have to come along. It was sneaky and manipulative and he'd watched himself try and undermine Sam's ties to his new life, after that...and Sam got pissed and Sam left. Dean dealt with that. He deserved it. Then Sam came right back. That was when Dean really started to hope stupid things. Now, it looked like he was getting his way, and he knew in his gut he damn well had to stick to it.

The whole situation was just another brick of twisted reality in the house that was Sam's life. There were so many things that made it odd or awkward -- that Dean was his brother probably being the foremost. But it was other things, like that Sam had grown accustomed to the dynamic of he and Jess's relationship, but there were significant and glaring reasons why that dynamic would never work with Dean. For starters, Jess didn't have the tendency to blow off things Sam said with a joke or teasing. More notably, Sam had always fallen in behind Dean. Dean was his big brother, and he had never tried to fight or rebel against that. As brothers, Dean was the one in charge of their relationship, the leader and the one to make decisions. As lovers, that was unacceptable -- Sam needed to be part of things like that. But it was just natural to fall back in line behind him, following the back he knew so well, clutching the hand that had been made to hold his.

Now Sam's head was against Dean's breastbone, and his brother was just there and not saying anything embarrassing, or shoving him off, and there was intimacy here, and while the way their legs twisted and twinned slowly spoke of a sensuality between them that Sam had only just begun to notice, this embrace was really just based around comfort. 

"Dean."

Sam always spoke his name so frankly, without pause or hesitation or that weight at the end that implied ellipsis. It was just his name, no question or statement attached to it, because it was a statement in and of itself, one of comfort, one of his childhood. 'Dean' was a word with its own inherent meaning, and it meant more than could ever be fit in a dictionary or some other well meaning but ultimately useless tome that could never sum up the being known as _brother_.

Dean stirred back to the present with a "...mnh?"

Dean’s thoughts were wandering, but maybe that was okay. Sam hadn't found anything in there to put him off, yet, and sometimes Dean thought some weird and kinky things. Unconditional acceptance wasn't something Dean had precedence for in his life.

"I want to get changed," Sam muttered, against the fabric of Dean's shirt. Dinner had kind of been forgotten, and at this point, sleep seemed preferable. "But I want to come back here...and not feel strange, or awkward." He licked his lips, setting the conditions before movement was made. "You good with that?"

"Lie here and look good. Got it."

Sam smiled a little. He raised himself, pausing to kiss Dean slowly but briefly, and then shifted off the bed. He moved to his bag, pulling out the loose flannel pants and white shirt that he used for sleeping clothes. It was a little weird to change in front of Dean, all of a sudden. Dean had seen his body since...well, forever. The man had changed his diapers (a thought that gave a whole knew sick twist to their relationship). Dean had known every curve of Sam's body all their lives, except for those four missing years. There had never been any need for modesty between them, and the tightness of motel living had kind of demanded that it be a non-issue. But now it sort of was. Now Dean wanted to know Sam’s body in a completely different sort of way, and Sam was beginning to consider the option of also wanting Dean to know his body in a completely different way, and he felt a little on display while he changed.

It would have been fine, if Sam could have decided whether or not he really liked that fact, or really didn't.

It was obligatory that Dean check Sam out while Sam changed. Not in that gawky, teenage-boy-at-Hooters way completely lacking in tact (which Dean remained as capable of now as ten years ago), but with an appreciative kind of glance that said he was interested, and Sam was changing, and that was nice. Good, even. A lot of skin, smoother than it might have been for all the brawls they got in, and Dean gave that due attention before his eyes wandered off and he focused on un-cinching his belt, because all Dean's clothes were comfortable and worn (sometimes for too many days) but a belt wasn't great to lie around in. 

Dean didn't intend to sleep yet. Hunger had started with the faintest growl in his stomach and he figured when Sam nodded off he could finish off dinner for both of them and clean up the cabin a little before he hit the sack.

Sam got in on Dean's side of the bed, because Dean was lying on his side of the bed, but like all things in their lives, what was Sam's inevitably ended up as Dean's, and what was Dean's inevitably ended up as Sam's. Sam got into bed, shifting back towards his brother's form.

Dean watched him scootch closer with a ghost of a grin. He rolled back onto his side and reached out to pull Sam up against him, again. Who was it that made this so hard most of the time? Was it him? Was it Sam? More like both of them: Dean with his off-putting humor and Sam with his independent streak. It made them both uncomfortable with one another, and the thing about the brothers Winchester was that when they were uncomfortable with one another, they were uncomfortable with themselves -- just one measurement of just how fucked up and dependant they were with one another.

But at least they could put their arms around one another again. Honestly, that was worth it. Honestly, that probably should have come before the kissing.

Sam saw Dean open his arms, the entire motion welcoming, and the younger brother shifted into them with the muscle memory left over from when he was small.

Dean held Sam there until Sam fell asleep, feeling nostalgic and, for once, not sexual, although the way Sam fit up against him with the years and the height and the weight added to him was there, a hard fact Dean couldn't entirely ignore. Somehow, he got KISS's "Plaster Caster" stuck in his head, not exactly a lullaby, and he thought a vague _Uh… erk?_ when he realized his brain was halfway through it, but there wasn't much he could do.

Sam didn't seem to mind. As much as he abhorred Dean's taste in music on the surface, it was sort of the soundtrack of his life, and some part of him found it comforting. It meant that his brother was there.

The youngest of the Winchester's fell asleep, one of the rare nights that he did so without a terrible horror that when he awoke someone would be there, staring down at him.


	8. Chapter 8

If Sam called Dean on the moment of amicable bliss he was sharing with his hunk of itinerant car remains, Dean would deny it. They were on the road again. After months of inactivity and, even less inviting, hard work, the prospect of finding something evil and beating it into oblivion loomed welcoming on the horizon. Dean had bootstrapped the radio to a state of repair, mostly by luck, and, while the CD player was of no use to them, he found a classic hits station an hour into the drive which played enough Dean-caliber music to keep him satisfied. Dean was pleased with what the car was doing, transporting him across country and entertaining him at the same time, and, by extension, he was pleased with the car -- at least in comparison to how _dis_ pleased with it he could be.

Sam grew up with his father in charge of the radio, and then, when not his father, his brother. Besides heckling, he didn't really have a lot to contribute. Jess had tried to get him into popular music, but it just jarred him. He preferred a decent book and some silence.

But as it was, he was used to Dean's musical tastes.

Sam had scooted down in his seat, his long legs bunched up with his knees against the dash. He'd gotten Dean to cut his hair, eventually, so it wasn't quite so mop-like any more, although now it was fun and uneven. The time at the little cabin had primarily been spent with him working out and trying to get back some of the physical skills he used to have. His aim wasn’t as good as it used to be, nor was his fighting. His muscles might have grown back, and his motor memory remembered the moves he was taught, but the two hadn’t coordinated in terms of what was expected and what was possible. It irritated him, but there was little he could do about it at this point.

Once Sam built his muscle back up, Dean had done his best to knock him back into shape. The sparring did a lot to ease Dean's salacity. He got workouts with a lot of physical intimacy, and only occasionally used a hold to do something lewd with his mouth or his hands. After Sam's freak out a month and a half ago, Dean finally figured out what it meant to take it slow. 

For Sam the whole thing rose and fell in oscillating waves. He had so many things on his plate. The demon, the coma, the nurse, Jess (still Jess, always Jess)...and the memory, of course, of what the demon had said to him. They were all freak out worthy, and Sam was slowly working his way down the list, because apparently life didn't want to pause and give him some breaks in there to deal. 'Incest', which would, on a normal day, be pretty high on the list, was actually pretty low when compared with the charred corpses.

And weirdly enough, the incest had become a point of comfort. His brother wasn't pushing things, and it gave Sam an outlet to be physical with someone, whether in their sparring or their necking. It was amazing how good that could feel, when you were thinking things over in endless cycles in your head all day -- just to be able to use your hands. 

Other than that, it was merely a matter of time. Sam needed that time to come to grips with the fact that the relationship he had with his brother would never be quite the same. And really, that time would hopefully be enough to begin to allow himself to appraise his brother's body in a sexual manner -- which was pretty difficult to do, because hell, he'd never looked at Dean like that. He'd never looked at any guy like that, and taking the chance to work himself into it was pretty welcome. He loved his brother so intensely, he actually didn't have difficulty seeing himself in an intimate relationship with him. It was the more physical things that he was getting used to -- and that made that outlet even more essential.

The idea of making it with a guy came easy to Dean. The difference was between the amount of skin in him and Sam’s sexual histories. The difference in having sex with a guy was very small in light of the amount of sex Dean had had over all. That wasn't what put a damper on things for Dean. No, what put a damper on things was the nervousness Dean was facing right now. They were going to see John, and Dean couldn't shake the feeling in his gut that John would take one look at him and _know_.

It wasn't entirely paranoid. Dean had grown used to the fact that his only private thoughts were when Sam was sleeping. It was still annoying as hell, for sure, but the situation was livable. Dean didn't know if that level of honesty had messed with his poker face. He'd been playing poker down at the bar all right, sure, but John knew his tells better than anybody. Better than Sam. Dean had every safe intention of it _not_ coming up under _any_ circumstances, but he let his nerves play out their scenarios while he drove. 

_So, have you ever pictured Sam and me in a... sexual relationship?_

_..............._

_....that didn't come out right._

Sam made a noise somewhat like a sneeze and he turned to _stare_ at Dean.

"Shut _up_ ," Dean warned in advance, eyes snaking to the side only half a second. _Goddamn psychic and your...mind reading._

"Dude, are you seriously going to tell him?" Both eyebrows were raised, because Jesus, _that_ wasn't going to go over well.

"No! Of _course_ not. Dude. Uncool.” He shot Sam a _look_ and, shaking his head, eyes back on the road, he groped for his sunglasses. 

"Well, I would have _thought_ so, but you seemed to be practicing or something.” Sam wriggled a little and scooted upwards in his seat. "Though, you have a point. He could... _notice_.” That would be almost as bad. (Still not as bad as standing there, _telling_ him).

"Like hell he will.” Dean worked the sunglasses open between his thumb and his thigh and slid them on, all the privacy he could afford himself. "I will be as chaste as a twelve year old _nun_."

"Just the fact that you're not sleeping with everything that's got legs and breasts is probably going to tip him off to _something_ being up.” Sam smirked a little.

Dean shrugged. 

"I'll tell'im I got the clap."

Sam sat fully up right and gripped his stomach, making a sort of 'pppppdt' sound.

Sam banged his head on the dash in the motion of sitting up too fast to laugh, and leaned back to rub his forehead. 

"Dude, your car is really tiny."

"Sorry there, Yao Ming," Dean rejoined unapologetically, smirk on his lips. Not that he was standing up for the car. No. Sam just couldn't expect everyone to accommodate the freakishly large.

Sam had been fine in the Impala. The Impala was spacious! He shuffled back, getting himself comfortable again. 

"So. I think...you know. Maybe I'll miss it,” he said, almost stiltedly. 

Dean didn't want to have an emotional moment about his car. Were they going to have an emotional moment about his car? They let the subject lie for so long.

Sam glanced over at Dean. 

"The...Well.” He shrugged a little, awkwardly. "While we're around Dad, not being able to be close. And whatnot."

False alarm.

"Heh heh... Admit it, man. I'm _that_ good.” Dean grinned a pervy grin.

Sam's long arm shot out to jab Dean in the side.

"Right. So, next time, I'll remember that your ego doesn't need inflating.” Sam rolled his eyes. 

"Ooch," Dean grunted, lips still tugging up at the corners. His eyes wandered out the driver's side window, watching the countryside roll by in a blur through the tint of his glasses. "Hey.” He shrugged. "You're not bad yourself."

Sam glanced across at him, curiously. It wasn't that Dean didn't compliment him. Growing up, it had been Dean that had offered encouragement, whooped when Sam fired a good shot, came to his nerdy high school play and clapped raucously for him -- that was all totally normal. That was...brotherly.

What he just said? That was something altogether different. Something...loverly? Okay, that was sort of a dumb word. A gay word. And Sam felt pretty self-assured in using that terminology.

But it was a good word to describe it, nonetheless.

It was another one of those weird things, in making all the tiny but significant adjustments. Everything from teasing to compliments seemed to go through this bizarre meat grinder and come out the other side in a totally different shape. It was difficult to reconcile himself as a brother with himself as a lover.

And, for some reason, having his brother tell him that he wasn't so bad himself ( _in bed_ , Jesus), it made him a little heady, and perhaps touched on his own ego. He shifted a little and muttered an almost embarrassed but sort of pleased 'thanks'.

Dean ducked his head, laughing under his breath. His chuckling gained volume until he broke it off, snorting through his nose, a wave of _happy_ rolling off him tinged with a brotherly sort of pride, the way he got whenever Sam showed some libido, and, more intimately, arousal. He winced at the corner of his eyes, behind his glasses, where Sam couldn't see it, but breathed through that, the hesitation passing underneath his surface thoughts.

In the cabin, away from the routine he and Sam had established on the road, Dean had been able to suspend judgment on himself, and suspend judgment on Sam. Now, they were headed back into what passed for their normal, and Dean had a feeling something would have to give -- Dean himself, maybe, and the way he treated Sam. The fact that they couldn't step back from everything changing between them, at least, that Dean wasn't going to step back if he could help it...that remained a precarious situation, because Dean still had a lot of problems with being that vulnerable, no matter how much he wanted to let Sam in. All he hoped was that he could hold it together in front of John. 

Sam glanced over at him as his brother laughed, and smiled in response, because that was really the only response one could have to that kind of laughter.

Seeing Dean happy ( _actually_ happy) was so rare, and so very important to Sam. He was acutely aware of how few times that'd happened when they were growing up, and how it still didn't happen now.

Some part of Sam was intensely proud to be the _reason_ Dean was happy, some possessive little brother part of himself that made him feel a little full of himself for having even this part of his big brother.

Sam pulled one foot up on to the seat, his knee pressed against his chest.

"We'll just have to be careful, s'all."

"You're tellin' me," Dean muttered, expression sobering slowly as he his paranoia caught up with him, again. He thought about, though. "I mean, besides dad, it's fine. We won't get beat up any more than any other two gay guys -- I'd like to see the homophobe who can kick my ass.” A smirk. A pause. _Not that I'm gay. Because I'm not. Clearly._ What was the word again? _Bisexual._ That couldn't be it, either. Dean searched his thoughts. _...incestuous._

Dean flinched.

It was true. Neither of them had any real inclinations to go for guys. Sam had only ever been attracted to women in his life. He could turn his head right now and look at Dean and honestly say ' _Yes, I find him aesthetically pleasing, possibly even a little bit sexually pleasing_ ,' but that came out of a lifelong bond and relationship with the other man that made him view him through specially tinted glasses. Dean-tinted glasses.

That was almost worse, really, because Dean's thoughts had really hit the nail on the head -- he wasn't attracted to any men besides his brother. He wasn't gay, or bisexual, he was just incestuous.

And okay, attracted might be too of a strong word. They'd been kissing and necking for the last few weeks -- hands had gotten a bit adventurous too. Sam _did_ have to admit, he enjoyed it. It had become normal to kiss Dean when he came in through the door at the end of the day. It had become normal to shift intimately close in bed, perhaps hazard Dean's grumbling and teasing by shifting arms around him. Sam was still working on 'attracted'.

Sam shrugged a little.

"Maybe it just makes sense like that. Because...it's not cause you're a guy. It's because you're _Dean_.” He shrugged again, a nervous motion. "Somehow, given our family situation, incest makes a sick sort of sense. You're the only person I know who really understands me, after all.” Who else could he really confide in and be close to? The delicious taste of rationalization. Because any of those excuses were _clearly_ acceptable for sleeping with your brother.

" _Sick_ sense," Dean repeated. He realized in his gut that wasn't the most reassuring thing to say, and he all kinds of bullshit was coming to mind, but that didn't fly with Sam, anymore. "Sam, only you can talk our family into normal," he said, instead. Dean operated on emotions and gut feelings, and his gut feelings alternately told him he should get dirty with his little brother and that he had stepped into territory people weren't meant for. It killed him to not be able to tell Sam otherwise. Maybe Sam wanted Dean to depend on him more, but it seemed like every fiber of him was fighting against it, ready to shut off and change the subject.

Sam just puffed a breath.

"Who're we hurting? It's not like we can make freak babies. And I trust you, so it's not like there'd be any kind of psychological thing. Hell, I was the one that initiated it.” As for normal...Sam would deal with that when he got to it. For now he was just trying to deal with the changes in their relationship. It was bizarre that _he_ was the one pressing this. Maybe it was because since Jessica’s death he had been adrift, with no clear path in front of him. He was already beginning to become attached to the idea of it, and like the stubborn, one-track person he was, he was determined to force the issue.

When Dean let him self get past that word -- _incest_ \-- Sam was right. And there was no doubt in his mind he wanted it, and every doubt in his mind he could get bored with. If he wasn't bored of Sam after nineteen years, there wasn't much Sam could do to shake him. Maybe that was the scary part, being involved with the person he'd do anything and kill anybody for. Where did he go from that? And how about Sam? Sam had already manifested inexplicable powers to save him. At least, Sam had said he had. Sharing more than they already did seemed a little too big, a little unreal. And then there was John, ahead of them, at the end of the road. Dean couldn't prepare for that if he had a script. Sure, Dean would blow him off this time, and there was the vague possibility that John would run off on them for half of forever...

That was who they were hurting. Their dad, who had raised them and looked out for them and had expectations. Dean didn't see him taking it well, no matter how many little scenarios he ran through. He didn't have to say it out loud, because he knew he thought it clear enough for words. John was all his hang-ups, all together. Dean didn't give a damn what other people thought about him.

He shifted his grip on the wheel and set his jaw.

Sam looked over at him slowly.

"Hey,” he said lowly, and because Dean seemed to be trapped in his thoughts and only half paying attention to him at this point, he thought it warranted saying again. "Hey.” He waited to get Dean's full attention.

Dean turned his head, glancing back to the road twice, thought still wandering. At first, that was it, but then he grimaced and called himself a pussy and took off his sunglasses, met Sam's eyes before he focused his gaze back on the asphalt. Sam had his ear.

"You're my brother, and I love you.” He said it with all the easy simplicity of someone who wasn't afraid of embarrassed to say it -- with the simplicity of someone who knew it was irrevocably true and couldn't even bother to deny it. "That's a 'no matter what', type thing. Even if the adjustment period is a little weird.” He settled back into his seat. "I imagine that's just...you know, the way with incest. There's a lot of history, and all. But I _asked_ you for this, and you don't have to feel guilty. Not about this."

Dean swallowed down his peaking emotions and shook his head a little, shrugging to the side. Even if he fought it that much, it put him at ease to hear it, and he sighed out the air in his lungs and started breathing again with clearer thoughts. 

"You know I feel responsible," he said, and that was honest. He felt responsible for what Sam did, in the broadest sense. It didn't kill him to say it, with Sam commanding his attention. "I mean, Sam, I _raised_ you.” He tossed him a glance, his lip twitching up in the corner, breathed out a laugh. And it was okay; nothing exploded. He didn't know how to say it any better. He couldn't read Sam's mind and know it wasn't all something he'd set up.

"Yeah, I know.” Sam didn't bother to deny it, and his voice housed no resentment, just a quiet appreciation. "But that makes you mine, too.” He looked over at Dean with the same unwavering gaze he always had, even when talking about things he should feel some embarrassment saying. Sam had that determined emotional way.

Dean had raised Sam, and like any child with a way about him, Sam had managed to twist Dean into giving him the things he wanted, and had charmed his way into being the most important thing or person in Dean's life. And that made Dean as much his as he was Dean's.

Dean stared at him like none of that had occurred to him. As much as he could stare, anyway, without wrecking the Mazda. (He straightened the car up with the yellow line.) In fact, none of that had occurred to him -- not consciously, in a way he'd let himself believe. A feeling of relief broke in his chest, through emotional blockage he hadn't realized dammed up. He slapped his palm against the steering wheel, eyes on the road.

"...I _so_ wanna make out with you right now."

And that was a phrase Sam had never expected to feel so much pleasure over when coming from his brother. But Sam did, and Sam laughed.

He leaned over the gear shift and median of the car and kissed the edge of Dean's jaw with reckless joy. 

"There's always the shoulder, brother mine."

And it was, perhaps, the first time that Sam felt something akin to anticipation spark and curl comfortably in his belly.

Dean's brow knit together and his mouth hung open, working once on saying something while jolts of endorphins fired through his stomach and then he shot full of purpose, jerked the wheel to the side and righted the car and slammed the breaks on in one smooth motion. The person behind them laid on the horn, blaring by, and Dean decelerated just slow enough not to kill them. He pushed the gear shift into park. He glanced over suspiciously, like maybe Sam was shitting him, and then he unbuckled his seatbelt.

There was just no way he was passing that up. The grin that broke on his face was like a fat kid with a whole chocolate cake. It shifted to smirk and he reached over and touched Sam's cheek. He was still radiating a certain disbelief. He could see Sam as sexual, because he'd seen Sam sexual: the way Sam moved and the things that made his breath halt up, the way his big body could coast sensual -- and that was amazing every time. All those things were hot. All those things turned Dean on. (Whether he was ready for them to, or not.) But somehow, Dean had always had a this one image of Sam, the image of the guy that blew him off every time he got a little perverted. 

_I bet you can talk_ dirty _._

He thought it like he'd just discovered America for Spain.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Sam replied, finding he was just enjoying the feeling of being happy with his brother, so much that he didn’t even bother defending his reputation as someone who did _not_ talk dirty. He reached out and curled his fingers into the collar of Dean's shirt and he did so feeling, for the first time, a sense of ' _mine_ ' as his fingers slipped into the grooves of the cloth around Dean's neck. He pulled Dean towards him, the two of them leaning over the median, and Sam pressed his lips firmly against Dean's.

Dean's fingers slid over Sam's cheek as Sam pulled him in. He let them curl in Sam's shaggy hair and he maneuvered his left leg up into the seat, bracing his boot against the gray fabric. The clunker remained a definitively _bad_ make-out car.

It was awkward, especially with the both of them being big men, and the car most definitely smaller than the Impala. Not to mention the median horribly in the way.

But, for all that, Sam found himself more drawn into this kiss than the others. He couldn't exactly put his finger on _why_.

Maybe it was because there was truth in what he'd said -- that Dean was actually his, and something in that thought thrilled him, because he'd always been Dean's, and he'd been running away to escape that (escape Dad, mainly, but still). The idea that, in the end, Dean sort of belonged to him...

It was the idea that he could be this close to the person he'd always wanted to be like, or grow into, or be close to -- until he'd decided to throw all that away. Dean was an all or nothing type person. He'd always wanted emotional intimacy from his brother, like they'd had when they were little, but had always been denied it when they were older. He'd never realized that it was because emotional intimacy carried more than just baggage -- it carried sex and physical intimacy with it.

And for the first time, Sam found himself really, genuinely okay with that thought. Maybe more than okay.

Dean could feel Sam getting into things in the give and take of their bodies. The smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips fell off as Sam's mouth demanded more of him, but his enthusiasm lit up inside, rolling back his habitual veneer of world-weary cynicism. When Sam didn't need coaxing, Dean could really enjoy himself and enjoy that out of proportion pleasure he got from skin on skin action.

Sam's hand shifted up from Dean's collar, to the line of his jaw, palm resting against the stubble. He felt his lower lip slip between Dean's two, and his tongue pressed forward, until he could taste the roof of Dean's mouth.

All of Dean's attention was focused on him, and the small, childish part of himself that still wanted that was ecstatic. It confused him, because he thought he'd left behind wants like that a long time ago.

Dean laughed in his throat and let his lips part breathlessly, tongue tickling up the underside of Sam's, and then the kiss got messy, all tongue and no lips and not really 'kissing' anymore. Dean swayed back to breathe in, sucked on his lower lip and then pressing his lips against the corner of Sam's mouth, the center, and then he was kissing him open mouthed again and his thoughts were echoing _that makes you mine, too_ , because he couldn't digest that and all the relief he felt. 

It was safe. It was permanent. It was happiness breaking and breaking again and he felt like stupid and emotional but it had a good outlet, exactly the right outlet and he thought _God, I love you_... and that was terrifying. It shuddered chill through his chest; his breath hitched unsteady. There it was, that aching dependency he couldn't afford to put in anybody and he didn't get to choose to put it out of the table -- had it slammed down by his stupid, backbiting thoughts, and when was the last time he told Sam anything like that? It was months and months ago and Sam had ditched him and left for California and that had been safe, because Sam couldn't reject him any harder than wandering off in the middle of the night, preferring whatever the hell to his company.

Dean froze up, in the moment. There were a million things he didn't want to hear, he wasn't sure he wanted to hear anything at all. It felt like being ripped raw open.

Sam felt too many things all at once, because the events happened so close together. They were kissing and it was good, hot and heavy and involved, and then he heard the strong echo of Dean's voice in his head, and the power, the _emotion_ in it was almost overwhelming. It made Sam suck in a breath, like someone had just punched him in the gut, and made his stomach flop at the same time. He wanted to respond, immediately, but then the mind numbing fear and pain he felt coming off of Dean made him go still.

Sam opened his mouth, wanting to tell him it was okay, wanting to do something to make it better, but Dean was braced as if a word, any word, might shatter him. Sam drew his head back slowly, but lifted his other hand to the opposite side of Dean's jaw, holding his head in place. He was unwilling to let him go, to move away from him. 

Dean's vision scattered, darting nervously, flickering over Sam's face, breaking off the split second of focus. He thought _can't do this_ ; _fucking hate this car_ ; _shit_ and the emotion hit the back of his eyes and his mouth hung open but he didn't have anything to say -- snapped it shut when his lower lip quivered. Frustration rushed over his furious emotions, rolling everything back as it receded, like a wave off the sand. His brow knit defensively and he looked at Sam hard, green eyes rimmed with the flush of emotion, daring him to make something out of it -- lashing out felt better than holding it down, but then the stupidity of that caught up with him and he dropped his gaze and finally the rollercoaster crept to a halt.

"Just... forget it.” He mumbled, his throat feeling thick.

"No.” Sam said instantly, before he could remind himself not to speak, because the idea of just _forgetting_ it seemed so wrong, and almost cruel. 

One of Sam's palms smoothed over the side of Dean's face. 

"I'm not about to just forget something like that...It's important. To me."

" _Sammy_ ," Dean protested, fierce and offensive like he could force him to kowtow, his face flashing hurt, but then he backed off it, looking sour -- feeling sour -- but not jerking away (the impulse to move flashed across his thoughts). His wrist rested loosely on Sam's shoulder, fingers limp in Sam's unruly hair. Underneath it, the fear snuck back, creeping with cold fingers.

Sam gritted his teeth a little, wetting his lips. He understood the concept of being afraid to love -- he could barely abide the thought of being involved with someone like that, letting him get that emotionally deep. But Dean was _different_ , Dean was outside that. Because he'd always had Dean, and always loved Dean (in a brotherly sense), so no matter what he did now, losing Dean would hurt. Loving him more wouldn't change that. It was the main reason he'd been okay with the concept of this whole relationship shift.

Dean was _already_ important to him. It wasn't like he could get any deeper than he already was.

He leaned in and kissed Dean again, because something in the tone and the way that Dean said 'Sammy' and not 'Sam', demanded it.

Dean pressed his wrist hard against Sam's shoulder and kissed him back tense, at first...and then Sam was still kissing him. He sucked air in sharp through his lips, against Sam's; the tension seeped out of his body. For once, he let Sam lead him on, spent and hungry, at once.

Sam kissed him slow, tongues touching only occasionally, and then he kissed the corner of Dean's mouth (an echo), moving slowly over his brother's cheek to the space right before his ear. He turned his head, nose pressing to that point as his arms moved around Dean's shoulders awkwardly over the median.

Dean's breath panted damp on Sam's neck. He ached sick above the waist, emotion eating through his stomach, and his head was silently sinking through all the reasons Sam couldn't see him come apart. His cock never thought like that (but that was why he loved it) -- his cock swelled and cheered and approved. 

"I liked hearing that,” Sam said, or managed to say, barely, against Dean's ear. Because it was true. It had almost bowled him over, but it made something in his chest rise to hear it. He had no idea what was the right way to approach this. In all likelihood, there was no right way to approach this.

And god damned this car was too small for them to do anything in. 

Sam pulled Dean closer, and he moved his kissing to Dean's neck, pressing tight against the rough skin.

Dean slowly let the air out of his lungs. He tilted his head to the side, letting Sam at the skin Sam was working on. It was a minute before he could pick himself up and start piecing his emotions together, and even then everything inside him hung on a ragged framework, awkwardly exposed. He nuzzled his face against the crook of Sam's neck. The hand that had fallen off Sam's shoulder clutched at a handful of Sam’s shirt at Sam’s back. He listened to the roar of cars whizzing by, the Mazda shivering when a car whipped by close in the slow lane. The sun was beating down on the dashboard and Dean wanted to have sex with his brother.

Sam paused after a moment, his lips resting lightly against Dean's collarbone, and his eyes fell half lidded.

He knew what he was about to say, and he knew he had to say it, and he knew there was no way he wasn't going to say it, but it warranted pausing.

"...The next exit is a mile up the road.” He said lowly. "There should be a motel there."

Dean thought about it. Fantasized about it. Unclean images skittered through the haze of depression and uncertainty and Dean's emotions lurched towards the positive. He tugged his arm towards Sam's back, a twitch at his elbow, a brotherly hug. His fingers unclenched from Sam's hoodie and he pulled back, disentangling himself. He eyed Sam over skeptically, a smile wandering onto his lips, husky voice teasing, 

"Don't get me wrong. We're _gonna_ have sex in a motel."

For once -- for the first time, ever -- Dean didn't want to give over to the brain downstairs and that sinking, cheap feeling.

Sam shook his head, confused.

"I don't understand."

Dean's eyes rolled up, he shut them, shaking his head, lips parted and breath slipping out. 

"Man, Sam...” He peered at him, and then lifted his brow. "So you'd really, _finally_ , do me?"

Sam looked offended, body jerking back a little, the brash insensitivity of Dean’s question rubbing him completely wrong. He looked over at Dean, then settled back into his own seat, looking forward at the road with a purposefully blank expression, but definitely not a pleased one.

"Never mind. Just drive."

Dean looked at him a minute. He was hard. Sam had been willing. It was the worst minute ever.

He sucked his tongue against his teeth in a _tch_ of disappointment -- with himself, with the timing -- and shifted the car into gear. He accelerated in the emergency lane, checked his shoulder and veered over into traffic. He was quiet a long time, his emotions still shaky.

 _You're not..._ He thought finally. _I..._ His thoughts shuffled off. _I wanna be alone._

He clarified that firmly, glancing at Sam. "In my head.” His mood was starting to tank again.

"I'd be happy to, if I could control any of this.” Sam snapped bitterly, frustration with himself and his inability to control his powers just adding to his already sour mood. He paused, then shifted around, turning to face the back of the car, knees up on the seat as he peered over into the backseat. He rooted around for a moment, and then found some sleeping pills in the medical supplies bag. He shook out a couple and swallowed them dry, turning back around.

"There."

Dean made a noise in exasperation and reached over, swatting at Sam a few times before he yanked the pill bottle out of his hand, the clunker swerving on the road. There was nothing to do about it, though, and he looked down at the bottle, disgusted, and threw it at the back seat. 

Dean was relieved. That was the worst part.

Sam ignored Dean's swatting, till the bottle was grabbed out of his hand, but he just grunted and shifted himself into the corner made by the seat and the door. He crossed his arms and felt the effects of the sleeping pills rather quickly, though the way his mind was walking in loops kept him up longer. Eventually he nodded off into a false sleep.

It was enough. He had no dreams, still no dreams, and with no dreams he heard no voices.

Dean vented it all out. Every nasty thought. Every self-depreciating thought. In his head, and out loud to the steering wheel. Why did he always have to be such an asshole? Why did Sam always have to be such a fucking drama queen? _I can’t put up with this brat_ and _I fuck up every person I touch_ and _Why_ didn’t _I leave for New Mexico?_ He vented until he stopped making sense. He vented until Nirvana and Pearl Jam were the reason for all of his problems with their fucking Grunge movement and he was glad Kurt Cobain was dead.

When he was glad Kurt Cobain was dead, satisfied about that deep in his angry, tired chest, he started looking for an exit for the night. He found an exit and a Motel 6 and checked in before lugging and prodding a grumpy Sam to the room. They'd been sharing a single for the past two nights on the road, but he got a double, this time. He rolled Sam onto Sam's bed and picked his too-long legs up and worked his shoes off and tucked him in. He watched late night television propped up on the pillows, as close as he could get to Sam across the gap. He fell asleep on top of the covers.

\----

Sam woke up at some ridiculous hour in the morning, as he had ended up going to sleep around four in the afternoon. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, which it always did whenever he used sleeping pills, but given their job it was just one of those unavoidable necessities from time to time. Especially now that it seemed sleep was the only time he couldn't hear Dean's thoughts.

Sam sat up slowly and rubbed at his eyes, but the feel of his bed already told him he was alone. A mattress had a different feel to it, when another body was beside him. Sam glanced to the side anyways, to verify that fact visually, then looked around for signs of Dean.

He had expected to see the bathroom light on, or Dean at the computer, or passed out on the desk or something. Instead he realized there was a whole other bed in the room, and Dean was in it. Dean was still halfway sitting up, his legs stretched out across the comforter, in his jeans with the holes worn in them, his belt still on, his feet bare, shoes and socks tossed with Sam's on the floor, the television controller grasped loosely in his left hand. The difference in their sleeping hours had been drastic, and he was still deep in slumber, his head turned to the side against the pillow behind him.

Sam was intensely displeased to realize his foul mood hadn't dissipated while he was asleep, because it just got fouler.

On the one hand, it was probably good, given their not-quite-argument in the car, but on the other, it just rubbed Sam the wrong way. Dean was making all the decisions for them -- still. From time to time Sam managed to catch his brother off guard enough to force his will, but it was always an ordeal. No matter how much they talked about it, Dean never just asked him for his opinion or accepted the fact, or even the _notion_ that Sam was a thinking, feeling, acting adult and had a say in anything they did.

They'd been sleeping in the same bed for awhile now, and actively holding one another while they slept for at least a couple of weeks, maybe a little more, so the idea that Dean had just separated them kind of pissed Sam off. Pissed him off enough to not _want_ to sleep next to Dean anyways -- but that wasn’t the point, god damn it.

Sam rubbed both sides of his head furiously because the complexities of this were just ridiculous. He was beginning to understand why incest was termed a _bad_ thing, even when babies couldn't be made and it was consensual on both sides. It was just so _complicated_.

The youngest Winchester leaned back against his headboard with a small sigh, looking straight forward at the shadow that was the entertainment center, and propped one knee up to rest his arms in the crook of his pelvis. He had bigger problems to deal with anyways -- things like burning women, comas and demons, visions and the future, and an unwanted present. It was bizarre how his internal debate of 'to fuck or not to fuck my brother' was drowning out the whole 'world might be coming to an end' thing. Which was sort of _wrong_.

He definitely hadn't had any dreams since the coma, and it was seriously beginning to bother him -- for multiple reasons. The first was nice and obvious. Humans dreamt. It was just what they did, as a higher mammal. The fact that for months now he hadn't had a single dream was just the icing on the 'I'm not sure I'm actually normal in any sense' cake. The other reason was that he hadn't had any _dreams_. Or Dreams, perhaps, because his visions warranted capitalization.

Once, he would have been happy over it. Now it was just concerning him more. Knowing what was going to happen would actually be _useful_ at this point, but of course, when he needed them, they wouldn't come. Also, he had discovered he preferred precognition to telepathy. The visions might hurt, but for some reason moving through time was less socially awkward than looking into people's heads, and as grateful as he was for the chance to actually understand his brother, it was beginning to just make things uncomfortable.

Behind him, in the walls, he could hear the other motel clients dreaming. He could hear Dean dreaming. He couldn’t hear the dream itself. If people were talking in Dean’s dream, he couldn’t hear their voices, or anything else from it. Rather, he could hear the motion of the dream, its weight. The way it _moved_ in Dean’s head, as bizarre as that sounded.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Sam shifted, moving to swing his legs over the side of the beg after a moment. He stood up, walking the way a Winchester walks, without sound, and stood over the edge of Dean's bed. He reached down, carefully extracting the remote from his brother's hand without touching him, knowing such an action would wake him.

He could do little else and not risk waking Dean, so he just pulled a blanket from his own bed and used it to cover his ... what? Boyfriend? Creepy.

Sam moved away from the edge of the bed, walking around it to the window, lifting a hand to move the curtain with carelessly long fingers, and he saw the barren street and parking lot out front, an old gas station glowing faintly across the street.

Everything was quiet, except for Sam's head, and he could see their old ghosts wandering the streets, as lost and unknowing as they always were. They flitted in and out of reality, like he was looking at two sheets of paper that kept shifting back and forth, barely revealing the space in between them.

So much like that flicker of blonde hair he saw at the corner of his eye as he refused to look, everyday, wherever he was, when he could smell the ozone coming off her skin.

\----

Dean woke up a couple of hours later, tired and too-early, to find the remote gone and the covers over him. That wasn't too strange. There were certain things he would sleep through when he knew it was Sam in the room. The fact that Sam had covered him up meant that maybe sometime during the day they would talk to each other civil, but the first thing Dean looked for when he roused to drowsy consciousness was where Sam was and if he still looked visibly mad.

He found Sam passed out, sitting in the chair, his head and arms haphazardly laid out over the desk. The bottle of sleeping pills, which Dean had hidden away, had apparently been dug out, because they were sitting on the desk next to Sam, the lid off.

Dean's expression darkened. He threw his covers off and crossed the space between his bed and the desk in three strides, checking the bottle out with adrenaline pumping irrational. His head told him Sam wasn’t _that_ dramatic and his paranoia told him Sam had been under way too much stress and he checked the bottle first because he told himself there was _no way_ you could kill yourself with just sleeping pills. Not without a whole lot. (But the paranoia got him down where the fear was lurking like a hungry beast.)

It was still half full, as it had been before, though clearly Sam had had a couple. Sam was far too vindictive for suicide, after all. Even going slowly insane like he was, he wasn't about to die until Jess had been avenged and Dean had had a piece of his mind.

Sam didn't wake, as the pills kept him in a low, murky slumber, where noises that would normally rouse him didn't, but it caused him to begin to stir.

Dean felt like an idiot and closed the pill bottle up and threw it in the trash. Then, he felt like Sam was an idiot, but he had half a mind to know that Sam would probably be more angry than he could be when Sam was up and around and that was going to suck. He thought about carrying Sam to the car, but showing up at the place of some hunter he didn't know with his drugged up brother seemed like a bad introduction. Not to mention he'd have to explain himself to John more than he would if they were a little late. He glanced back at his little brother, checking out how alert he was. Dean hadn't had the experience of walking around on sleeping pills.

Sam lifted his head slowly, looking like he was controlled by some mechanical function, rather than the organic being he was. He looked over at Dean and saw little more than a blurry form, but the noises from his head permeated the blanket of fuzz and let Sam know it was Dean.

He cursed lowly, because he could hear Dean's agitation, and right now he'd rather not hear Dean's _anything_.

Dean winced at the expression on his brother's groggy face. The fear jumped up to tell him there was no way, _no way_ a jerk like him could keep somebody like Sam, but he'd had plenty of fights with Sam before and he tried not to take that seriously. 

"Let's get y' into bed," he muttered, with as much authority as he could muster, reaching out to grip the underside of Sam's arm.

Fighting with one's family was pretty normal. Family always saw the worst side of you, because they had to put up with you (unless they were telling you to leave and never come back, of course), so it was easy to take out your fear and aggression with them, especially when they were the only human contact you had. It was one of the few normal things about the Winchesters. 

But there were complications when you started sleeping together.

People didn't want their lovers to be agitated and stressed. There were things that were allowed and acceptable in a family setting that _weren't_ in a relationship, and little sibling squabbles meant a hell of a lot more when they were _involved_.

Sam pushed himself up and swayed a little, but planted his hands down on the table squarely to steady himself. 

Dean thought, _So far so good_ , and held his free arm out, offering support if Sam came his way. Sam was big and disoriented and mad, three things bad in combination, and Dean wasn't sure how it'd play out.

Sam made a low noise, and a powerful wave of displeasure and a notion that ran along the lines of _Don't patronize me_ moved through Dean's head like there was no barrier there.

Before that, Sam's head seemed to be a one way radio -- taking in people's thoughts, but not putting them out.

There was something more bizarre about hearing someone else's thoughts, something more than just the idea of hearing them. They ran different than Dean's out thoughts. It was like being a native and having someone suddenly invade your nation, speaking some different language. It was like someone driving on the wrong side of the road. They made sense, so to speak, in that Dean understood them, but they felt foreign and tasted distinctly _other_.

Dean's hand jumped off Sam's arm, his weight shifting back on his heel. It didn't feel like an attack, not like a threat, but it wasn't something Dean felt eager to provoke again. Sam was big, and disoriented, and mad, and _psychic_. That rang exponentially worse in a whole new way. Dean leaked _shook up_ , discomfort -- not exactly fear; felt like he'd just sat up from all the blood running to his head.

Sam straightened to his full height when he felt that, looking over at Dean with a none too encouraging expression.

He was angry, and for a moment Dean's distress didn't worry or upset him -- it pleased him. He stood there for a moment, feeling something strange that he realized was the power rush he usually felt when he was winning in a fight against something gross and usually murderous. It was _not_ the feeling he usually associated with intimidating his brother.

He opened his mouth to say something, but then just lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, his shoulders slumping.

“Tell the truth,” he muttered after a moment with a small smile that was nothing but sad, remembering the words he'd spoken what must have been almost a year ago (god had it been that long?). "You can’t tell me this doesn’t freak you out.” He wasn't asking this time, because he knew the answer. He simply quoted himself, and remembered Dean's answer.

' _This doesn't freak me out_.’

The uneasiness faded to hurt. Dean's heart sank and a sensation of _trapped_ broke in him.

"I lie,” Dean admitted.

Sam knew it. Sam watched him do it to other people, and knew. It didn't make it any better, it made him feel worse, getting caught at it. Dean searched Sam's face. Sam had been real forgiving of a lot of shit in Dean's head, but Sam wasn't in a real forgiving mood.

"You're not supposed to lie to _me_.” It should have been angry. It should have been said gruff and irate. Instead it came out disappointed, and oddly reminiscent of when Sam was a child and he felt quietly betrayed, like when he realized they'd never stop hunting. More than anything, he sounded hurt -- and god that surprised him.

All the anger had just leaked out of him, like un ugly abscess, leaving just an old wound, and Sam sank back down to sit in the chair.

Dean struggled with the words. He had a million justifications that worked with himself, all the times he lied to Sam and the times he lied to John, rarer and more subtle. 

"...I don't just lie to mess with you, Sam," he said, finally, weakly defensive and not really feeling it. He couldn't just lie about it, now -- but that would have been easy. 

"I know that,” Sam murmured. He paused for a moment, then spoke again. "I know that, but it still just means that you don't trust me. Not really.” He looked down at the cheap carpet and vaguely remembered being hunched over and throwing up on a similar carpet, and that Dean was there for him then.

He remembered a shape-shifter's words: ' _You should appreciate him more_.' There was a truth in it, but he needed more from Dean than just physical protection and the occasional affectionate punch. He needed more from him if his brother expected him to stay, which he did.

Sam looked up at him slowly.

"C'mon.” He stood up carefully, and passed Dean, walking slowly around him, and leaned in to kiss him almost chastely. "Let's go to bed.” 

The taller man walked past Dean and crawled into Dean's bed, booking no argument on that count, because he moved to one side, leaving plenty of room for another body.

Dean watched him walk by. When Sam had lain down, climbed under the covers, he followed him, unbuckling his belt as he walked, melancholy and at the same time amazed. There was nothing good enough to say, nothing that could compete with Sam's acknowledgement. Dean couldn't be sorry, not when he'd kept Sam and John alive for years doing everything he did, sometimes second guessing them. He wondered if he'd willingly give that up if giving it up wasn't a non-option, but it didn't matter, because in the now and reality he had to do better. Sam had grown up and he deserved better. Dean slid underneath the sheet next to Sam, feeling his tiredness catching back up to him.

Sam moved and adjusted with the added weight on the mattress, knowing that at that moment he'd forgiven Dean, because he always would. He shifted one leg over Dean's just slightly, curling an arm around him, because despite all the shit that had gone down that day, he still wanted to be close.

He pressed his nose into the dip of Dean's collar and let his teeth rest lightly against the skin over the hard bone, his lips parted in sleepy relaxation. 

"I love you, too,” he mumbled, unable to say anything else at that point, worn too thin.

Dean grinned up at the ceiling, still mired in heavy feelings, but Sam's weight on his body and his breath against his skin was something more than he'd had in a long time, something more than he'd had, ever -- the body of a lover he couldn't shake. He didn't rest easy -- _a little freaked out_ was still underneath there, and he wasn't ready to accept Sam pushing into his head -- but that gnawing fear backed off and he rested, arms and legs finding a companionable way to let Sam lie.


	9. Chapter 9

"Well...” Sam started. "This is...Um.” He shook his head, at a loss for words.

The Mazda was parked in front of a large, old building in Jersey City. It was big apartment building, judging by the architecture it was probably built sometime in the sixties. The area surrounding the building was busy with noise -- traffic, children’s screeches, and construction going on just down the block. It was positively _urban_. More than that, there were blankets hung out on balconies and people standing outside the stoop of the main entrance, talking and fanning themselves in the heavy summer heat that reflected off the concrete.

People actually lived here. Not the crazies and crack addicts -- _actual people_. People with families, and lives, and normalcy.

Sam honestly could not envision _any_ hunter living here, and he couldn't envision his father staying here for any length of time. Sam had grown up spending various periods of time staying in different hunters houses (lairs, more like it), and the closest thing they got to normal was Pastor Jim (rest his soul). They tended to be antisocial loners, and usually just a tad bit crazy. They liked things like isolated cabins, and bunkers, and stock piles of ammo, food, and ancient texts on Etruscan rites and rituals. 

Some of the hunters they'd met were bona fide sociopaths who took out their violent and often times murderous impulses on ghosts and demons instead of humans. Hell, there was one hunter they'd met that bore a striking resemblance to the _Unabomber_.

When Sam'd read the address their dad had given them, he'd assumed it was some small, unkempt residence on the edge of the city, or else was an urban hunter, who lived in an abandoned warehouse or something (that happened sometimes, too). He hadn't expected to end up in the middle of Jersey City looking at a building where people did things like hold the door for one another.

"Dad's here? Seriously here? And he's been here for more than, what...a day?"

"That's what I _heard_ Bobby say,” Dean said, eyeing the building up and down. It wasn't the kind of building Dean Winchester set foot in without some kind of compelling reason, like walking into a demon's trap to rescue his possessed father. Considering he did exactly that the last time he time he was in any populous neighborhood, Dean's mental compass was tipping from skeptical to wary. He didn't love apartment buildings. Easy escape options were never accessible on some tenth floor.

Dean leaned back against the clunker, flipped out his cell phone and auto-dialed John's number, flashing a smile to the little pig-tailed six year old who stood staring at him as she clung on her mother's hand.

The answer was fast and gruff.

"You're late. Where are you?” John asked, disliking being involved in long distance communication line for any length of time.

"Outside. If this is _really_ where you're at.” Dean half-expected some sort of covert coordinates now that they'd reached a waypoint. "What's the room number?"

John grunted, which was almost indistinguishable from his normal grunts, or grunts of displeasure, but Dean would recognize it as the almost-but-not-quite-laugh grunt.

"Five-o-two,” he said. "Fifth floor, last door on your right after you turn left out of the elevator.” Then the line went dead, because John had imparted all the information he needed to, and had flipped the phone shut.

Dean held the cell back and looked at it, shrugged, and then stuck it back in his pocket. He glanced at Sam. 

"At least he picks up, nowadays." That was when Dean's nerves punched Dean in the gut. His gaze wandered five floors up. His expression gave away nothing, because there was nothing to do about it, and he didn't want to talk about it. "Five-o-two,” he repeated, another look at Sam. He pushed off the car. He stopped and waved at the pig-tailed girl between the car and the door. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and continued to stare. He offered her mom a smile that said _‘Adorable. Really.’_ and moved past, sort of weirded out.

The woman flushed a little and turned away, and Sam shook his head with a disbelieving smile.

"Dude, what is it with you and girls? Seriously.” He followed his brother along the little path to the main door, walking in through it into a not very fancy but still nice enough lobby. There was a single elevator that looked quite old, and Sam punched the 'up' button.

"Women love me,” Dean admitted, frankly shameless. "And we both know women are _really_ hot.” 

Dean thought something about Sam, and Sam having a couple of beers (because that was all it took), Sam and a woman, and a video camera. He shook his head, brow shifting thoughtfully. The elevator door opened. The train of thought broke off; _Never happen_. He stepped inside and swayed around to punch the ‘five’ button, pressing it three times, although it lit up on the first.

Sam gave him a look that was somewhere along the lines of _'fucking right it'll never happen'_ , because Dean had some weird ass momentary fantasies -- less fantasies and more bizarre sexual musings -- and some twisted need to breed Sam with various women he deemed acceptable.

But they were weren't going to get into that right before going to meet up with their dad.

The elevator stopped on the fifth floor with a little shudder that Sam politely ignored, stepping off into the skinny hallway that was typical of big city planning.

Dean followed him, thoughts stewing in the back of his mind. His face lit up as he stepped out behind Sam.

"Oh, man. Remember the first time I got you drunk?” _Good times._

Sam walked down the hallway, and gave Dean his patented _'what the fuck, big brother'_ look. "What?"

Dean radiated pleasure. "Dad yelled at me for like two hours. But...you were _plastered_. Wild Turkey. You're not a whiskey guy."

There had been a time, once, when Dean had been deeply concerned with making Sam a man. Actually, that had never really let up, even though Sam had crossed his thresholds years ago.

Dean's fondest memories of their childhood differed in drastic ways from Sam's.

Sam huffed. 

"Yeah, well. Lemme just tell him about the hand jobs -- I'm sure he'll love that even more.” He said dryly as he knocked on the door of five-o-two.

Dean's expression fell. He shot Sam a look of his own. He was pretty sure that wasn't funny.

Several moments later, it was a woman who opened the door. Compared to Sam and Dean, she wasn't tall. Compared to Sam and Dean, or even compared to John, she wasn't young, either. Her skin sagged on her thin frame, lines worn deeply in her face. She wore her age with a straight back, her gray hair fixed in a bun with long hairpins. She had dark, alert eyes, rimmed in mascara. She looked the young men on her doorstep over and nodded to herself, her words carrying the weight of a judgment:

"You're John's boys.” 

She stepped back to hold the door open, her long skirt held up off the floor in one boney hand.

Well, at least it seemed like they were in the right place.

Sam stepped in first with a polite nod to the woman. The hunter's mother, maybe? Seriously -- what hunter lived with his mother?

Dean scooted in the entryway behind him, glancing over the old woman, but more interested in what kind of place John had set up in. There wasn't much to see from where he was standing: the long hallway leading to the back wall where the hall turned right. A bookshelf stood against the wall halfway down, cluttered with books, curios standing on the edges of the shelves.

"He's in the living room,” the woman told them, nodding to the doorless entryway on their right as she shut the door behind them.

Sam moved through the little hallway that led from the entrance to the living room, lifting a hand to brush the ferns dangling from hanging planters away from his face as he walked. He came through into the living room and found his father on an ugly plaid couch made from that scratchy burlap material that had been oddly popular in the seventies.

"Dad,” he said, in conversational greeting, finding his father surrounded by piles of books, including his latest notepad.

The eldest of the Winchester clan looked up, nodding faintly.

"Boys."

Dean's checked out the living room curiously. The couch, an old television set sitting on top of an older console television, a velvety, red armchair with a big orange tabby slouching on top of it, one of those old lamps with fake crystals hanging off the frame, two more bookshelves, just as cluttered as the one in the hall, books missing here and there -- probably contributing to the mess of books everywhere.

"Hey,” Dean said, as an afterthought, sort of confused, and he looked down at the worn-out shag carpeting. He raised his eyebrow quizzically at his father.

The old woman stood behind them in the hallway. 

"I'll find that liturgy,” she said to John, and moved off into the back to give John a minute with his children.

John nodded to her.

"That's Ruth,” he said, by way of introduction.

"That's all?” Sam grumbled.

"Excuse me?"

"This is pretty odd -- can't you give us something a little more than 'That's Ruth'?” Sam challenged, John still having the ability to get his hackles raised just by being in the same space.

"Her name if Ruth Feinman,” John said finally, after a pause, looking up at Sam evenly. He was somewhat more willing to make concessions since everything that had occurred in Salvation and Lincoln all those months ago. His boys had asserted themselves as adults, and John was attempting to meet with that. "She's a hunter. Has been since before you were born.” He huffed a bit, quirking a rueful smile. "Since before I was born, too."

"Really?” Dean asked, looking back towards the hallway. "She's kind of...” He dropped his voice. "--scrawny." He looked back over his shoulder once more, but this time it was to throw John off while he wondered, _Hey, Sammy, I guess you never thought to talk to dad about the whole...constantly in my head thing? 'cause I was busy coping._ He faced forward, like, _huh_ \-- like he'd been digesting Ruth Feinman all along. "So, we're here to crack books?"

Sam didn't know how to respond to that -- literally. He had barreled into Dean's head once, and he'd been loopy on sleeping pills and pretty disgruntled at the time. He wasn't really thrilled about purposely trying to do that again, so he had to let Dean's comment pass unnoticed, as their Dad'd probably be pretty weirded out by him responding aloud to it.

"I'm cracking books,” John responded, leaning back against the couch with a sigh. "I checked in with Bobby for awhile, tried looking up some stuff - tried working on the ritual. What it is, what it does. Didn't find much. Tried some other hunters, but everyone said I should see Ruth.” The tone of his voice implied he'd been to see Ruth before, but that he'd never been too keen on her methods. There were plenty of hunters that John definitely did not get on with. "We've been working on what you told us, Sammy -- about the demon."

"What'd you find?” Sam asked rather eagerly -- eagerly enough that he forgot to correct his name.

John shook his head slowly.

"Bits and pieces here and there.... Nothing big enough to put together into something significant. Fire purifies, brings anew...stuff like that. Things we know. Been trying to put them in relation to this thing, but we're stepping into new territory here, really."

"The truth about demons,” Ruth said, entering the room from the doorway to the kitchen, "is that they don't usually show up in force.” She handed a handbound old leather booklet to John. "The trouble you had last November is very unusual. I wish I'd heard about it sooner."

"The taller one is Sam,” John said, taking the book from her hand, nodding his thanks.

Sam raised an eyebrow at that.

The old woman glanced across the room, then crossed the floor to stand in front of Sam, looking up at him with a sharp, studious scowl.

Dean didn't like it -- Sam being looked over like a lab rat or a show dog. He didn't immediately trust the withered old woman’s intentions. He stayed quiet, though, just giving her the eye. 

"Well, it didn't sound like you're a virgin,” Ruth observed. "And you look healthy enough.” She twisted one of the five bracelets on her thin wrist in contemplation. "You won't mind sitting down with me and letting me test some theories?"

Sam snorted and got that offended look that he tended to wear so well (and so often) at the virgin comment, but his geeky need to be polite to old ladies overrode his need to respond with something vaguely obscene and terribly snarky.

"Um...no. Sure, go right ahead,” he said in a dubious voice, and for once looked to his father, with a raised eyebrow that said _'Seriously?'_

John just half smirked and nodded, then clapped his hands to his knees and stood up, gathering up his notebooks. 

"Good and healthy,” was the only comfort John gave, moving past the boys and walking into the kitchen to continue his work.

Dean stood there uncertainly, watching their father go.

Ruth looked to Dean, not entirely unpleasant, suggesting, "You're Dean, then? Why don't you go help your father?"

Dean considered it. It would mean leaving Sam to some unknown fate with this creepy, wrinkly hunter. He hovered between options, then said, "I don't really read. Books."

Ruth was visibly unimpressed, her dark eyes narrowing.

"Well, then, you can keep my cat company.” She nodded towards the chair.

Dean nodded and made his way over, leaning to the side as he sized up the cat. It looked back at him passively with bored, orange eyes. Deciding it wasn't going to do anything sudden, he sat down in the chair.

The cat sized up Dean and decided he was _sub par_.

Ruth looked at Sam. 

"Would you rather do this in the library or in here?"

Sam shrugged a little. 

"Here, I suppose.” He felt vaguely _odd_ about this. Actually, less vaguely and more _completely_. What was up with this entire scenario? Sam tucked his hands into his pockets (a motion only kept for great moments of self-consciousness) and moved to sit on the couch stiffly.

Was this going to involve having to open his mouth and say 'ahh'?

Ruth followed him, standing in front of him for a long minute, looking down her nose impassively. She rubbed her palms together and then stretched out her hands. For several more minutes, in silence, she held her hands over Sam's skin, almost three inches away, moving slowly over his body, her expression intent.

Sam just looked up at her, confused and a little weirded out. Missouri just sort of _knew_ things. She didn't have to do anything fancy to get a result. This woman had a different feel to her -- while Missouri was more likely to actually thwap him, Sam had the feeling that this woman wouldn't have too much trouble cooking up some major mojo.

He could feel a slight _buzz_ between her hands, like some energy echoed back and forth in there, and he between them was caught in it.

Across the room, Dean gradually grew bored.

"What are you doin'?” It was weird, and tedious, and not knowing was murdering him.

Ruth's hands continued to move slowly. There was a pause before she replied, "I'm reading his aura."

Dean wished he hadn't asked. It was his turn to be not impressed. _Who does that? Seriously._

After several more minutes Ruth drew away, standing back. "There are some things I need to get, wait here."

She walked in no particular hurry towards the back of the apartment.

Dean looked at Sam querying, although by now he was considering facing a book, the old never-been-to-college try. Maybe the most danger Sam was in was of vegetating on the couch.

Sam just shook his head and looked bewildered.

"I feel like some kind of test subject.” He frowned. "Not cause of this, I mean...Well, kinda cause of this. But did you hear how Dad said it? 'This is Sam'. Like they'd been talking about me this whole time.” He looked a bit moody. The whole idea made him feel like an _object_ or something. He tried to shake himself out of it.

Dean sighed, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. 

"You know how Dad is.” 

It wasn't an excuse for John's behavior like it had been in the past. In the three months they had traveled together while Sam lay in his coma, Dean slowly realized that even if he was still a good soldier, he was an adult, now, and John was, sometimes, very much in need of another adult's opinion and not his son's unconditional obedience. It wasn't that John had changed much in the year Dean spent on the road with Sam, but Dean could see him differently. The drill sergeant and everything _father_ that Dean had idolized growing up had become fictions in Dean's head, tricking him into thinking his father held things together a lot better than he did, just like Dean used to trick Sam. John was stretched thin, tired, overworked, stubbornly obsessed, rash, and lonely. Dean saw it for what it was, and knew it wouldn't help anything if he and Sam picked on him.

"Yeah, I know...” Sam fidgeted a little. He was attempting to make concessions of his own (though he knew he was failing a lot of the time, letting his emotions control his actions). "Just...don't need _another_ thing to remind me I'm a freak right now.” He looked uncomfortable, and oddly small for his size then -- perhaps because he was hunched over a little, unsure of what was going to be said.

Dean looked at Sam and he turned around to look at the cat. He cautiously reached up to try and pet it. His experience with animals was limited almost exclusively to those which had attacked or spooked him when he was breaking and entering.

"I kinda hate to say it, but maybe this lady'll figure out what's up.” He paused to pick his words. "We don't really know what normal for you is."

Sam nodded a little at the first statement, but smiled a bit dejectedly at the second. Like he had a whole different standard of normal from other people, which had far reaching and disturbing implications -- that he was less than (or more than) human.

It brought up an old, lonely fear in him, one that he'd gotten used to in the last year, but now it was back and more real than ever. Less sad and more terrifying.

 _What_ am _I?_

And for a second a wave of 'lost' rolled off Sam, a blank, disoriented terror that made his fingers shake just a little and curl into fists. He bit his lip and reigned it in, and on the outside he looked normal, looked like Sam, and only Dean had a first person glimpse into his psyche, his thoughts.

It still startled Dean, this second time. The sense of the foreign displaced him at the same time terror that wasn't his own slammed through him, wiping everything personal off the table for those disorienting seconds. His fingers froze in the cat's fur. He waited it out. There was no Option B. Adrenaline kicked on to deal with it, but found nothing to do when it got there, his body excited and light. 

Having his thoughts hijacked struck freaky. It still didn't feel _good_. Honestly, though, Dean was more concerned with how Sam was feeling. He couldn't show it like he would have if John and Ruth weren't around, although he sent the sentiment Sam's way as clear as he could -- not something he usually tried.

He climbed up out of the armchair, turned around and looked at the cat. Awkwardly, he reached out and picked it up. It took a few seconds to get the thing situated. He grunted when its claws flexed in his skin.

When Ruth came back, he was sitting on the couch with Sam, trying to convince the cat that it wanted his company even if it _really didn't_.

There was a small smile on Sam's face, perhaps a little better than the last one, at the heat of his brother's form at his side. Even if they weren't touching, he could feel it. There and supportive. He didn't need to turn and look at him, he just knew.

Ruth had a wooden box under her right arm and something clasped in her left hand. She hadn't said Dean had to keep the cat company in the chair. She didn't comment about his move.

"I need you to undress,” she said, instead, to Sam. 

"What?” His head jerked up, and he stared up at Ruth incredulously. "What are you talking about? How undressed?"

Dean shot her a suspicious glare. He wasn't really in the mood for some grandmother to mess with his brother, but he was surprised when the cat started rumbling like a car engine under his hand as his fingers hit some spot under its chin and was almost distracted from saving Sam's honor. _Wow. Cats are weird._

Shot Dean a look that was something along the lines of 'gee, thanks, you can defend my honor anytime', which was better, really, because it distracted him from the things that were important.

Ruth's expression softened. She registered reluctantly how frightening the experience would be to a young man with only negative experience in the paranormal. It wasn't her way to be overly accommodating. 

"You can keep your undershorts on."

Sam looked back at Ruth, and tried to think of the situation like a visit to the doctors or something -- as opposed to exposing himself to an old lady, which was what his mind kept harping on.

He sighed and stood up, taking off his shirt, and because it gave him something to do with his hands, and more importantly, time to stall, he paused to carefully fold the garment and lay it over the arm of the couch. Then he took off his belt, looping it up and setting it down, then attended to his shoes and pants, undressing in that awkward slow manner. Eventually, he'd removed his pants as well, and his socks, because somehow standing around in his boxers and socks was more humiliating than standing around in his boxers.

While Sam undressed, Ruth set the small crystal globe in her hand next to the gaudy faux-crystal lamp and set the box on the table beside it, opening it up and taking out a metal-tipped jacquard bottle filled with a brown paste.

"Do you know if you're allergic to henna?” 

"Uh. Not that I know of?” Sam responded, because what else could he say? As far as he knew, he wasn't allergic to anything. Winchesters didn't have _time_ for allergies. Or, as Dean would say it, allergies were for pussies.

"What are you--...I mean...what purpose does this serve? I mean. What is this supposed to do?” Just to check she wasn't warping him to another dimension or something.

Ruth had to think about it. It wasn't often that she had to explain herself to someone. The rites and practices she had accumulated over sixty-eight years of living as a hunter were second nature, but detailing them in a way a twenty-three year old man would understand posed a certain challenge. The lines furrowed deeper in her brow. 

"I'm going to draw certain symbols onto your skin, mostly what we call Pentacles, or Medals. They're going to open up certain spiritual pathways, and project what's inside. You could say I'm going to...photocopy you into that rock,” she said, pointing to the stone sitting unobtrusively on the table, as if trying to look innocent to the role it played in all this. “I can do things to it that would be tedious and dangerous to try on you. It's Kabbalism, a little Hermeticism, a little New Age and some Tantra."

Sam gave the crystal a blank look, as if he expected it to give him a friendly little wave and say 'Hi, I'll be your rock of the soul today', but instead it just sat on the table. Like a rock.

"What?” His attention snapped back to Ruth, and this was insane. "I...” Well crap. He had nothing to say. "You told my father he's to stay in the kitchen, right?” Because he wasn't having his father walk in on him when he was mostly naked and getting henna drawn on him by a ninety year old woman. He didn't know why of all things bizarre in this situation, _that_ was the one he harped on, but it was. He sort of half heartedly lifted his arms out of the way to give her access to his skin.

He supposed this was something like a spiritual version of having his blood drawn or something. Which was a more comforting way of saying it than _she was going to suck his soul out_.

Dean was trying not to enjoy the whole thing -- Sam exposing himself to an old woman and, apparently, going to have henna drawn all over his naked body. Dean thought about some weird stuff, but he couldn't make that shit up.

Ruth’s wrinkled cheeks pulling back in a smile for the first time. "John won't come out here.” She stepped up to Sam and began applying the henna, starting by writing a strings of Hebrew characters in a circle on Sam's chest before drawing two circles around them and beginning a more elaborate design in the center of his breast, her lines straight and clear. "I'll be honest. Your father's not an adherent of spell casting. He thinks it brings us a little too close to what we hunt."

"I know.” Sam said softly, jerking a little when the cool stuff touched his skin, his reaction instincts overly honed. He was surprised to realize that, when it came to anyone outside his family, he was used to only violent touch -- being grabbed by a demon, thrown across a room by a spirit, choked by some kind of undead monster. That kind of touch was familiar to him. His family, of course, for all their in-fighting, was different. Bandaging wounds, being tucked into bed, rough but caring hugs, those were normal.

(John Winchester had never been a _cold_ father, that wasn't it. He had never balked from embracing his children, or putting a hand on top of their head's when they were tired or upset -- it was the actual verbal communication thing that he was bad at.)

Being around strangers, having them invade that sphere of space that was necessary as a hunter, that was weird. 

He remembered realizing such a thing before, when he'd first entered college, when Jess (at that time Jessica, or a _Ms. Moore_ , said in a cold tone) had picked on him and tugged at him, he'd reacted with surprise and sometimes with anger. He didn't understand why all these strange people kept coming up to him, _touching_ him. They shook hands and hugged spontaneously and did things like jokingly pinch each other's cheeks. It had been _bizarre_. It had taken him two years to get used to it, and another year after that to relax over it. He was a Winchester, and his only perceptions of 'normal' were in his fantasies and on the TV. Coming face to face with _real_ normal had been a strange and disorienting experience.

He'd almost come to fitting in. Just a little more and he could have become someone whole, just a little longer and he could have learned how to just be _Sam_ , but that was lost, and he found it so strange that he'd actually reverted. He was reacting the same way he did before he went to college.

Some part of him languished, another celebrated. That second part was deep down in his gut, and he squashed it down where he could ignore it.

Dean, meanwhile, recognized some of the symbols being drawn on his brother in a vague way from when Sam had Bobby's copy of the Key of Solomon out in the cabin and he looked over Sam’s shoulder and didn't really follow any of it. He couldn't have told somebody if they were the _same_ symbols if Sam's life depended on it, but they were similar. He hoped Sam's life didn't depend on it. Dean didn't think John would leave them alone with the old woman if this was something dangerous. He wanted to say he was sure of that, but John was pretty inaccessible.

Dean watched as the stranger drew strange symbols on parts of Sam's body he only sometimes got to touch. For all that Sam made out with him and for all the times now that Sam had jerked him off -- and those starting to add up -- Sam remained difficult to get in a sexual position. He wondered if Sam had really meant it, there in the Mazda on the side of the highway. The question pissed Sam off, but there it was: a legitimate question. Jumping from avoiding mutual masturbation to suggesting actual, spur of the moment, motel-bed sex was a leap. So, here was some old woman drawing something on Sam's thigh and Dean was jealous, more deeply, pointedly jealous than of John bonding with Sam back months before when Dean needed to look tough. He knew Sam would know it, and he knew Sam couldn't say anything, and he tried changing the subject with himself. _I think I like cats._

Dean still wasn't sure the cat liked him, but it was sprawled in his lap, now, still purring. And cats ate rats, too. Dean might never stay in one place long enough to have a cat, but, on the whole, this wasn't the ankle-biting black thing with sharp claws lashing out in the dark with a terrible sound as he stepped on it that he remembered from one unlucky hunting trip, or one of the aloof feral things he'd seen around motel parking lots. If Dean had been the kind of person who could have pets, though, maybe he would have had a cat.

Dean thought about that.

Dean's jealousy, however, was strong. Palpable. To go with a cliché, anyways.

Sam turned his head, wondering at his brother as Dean looked studiously down at the cat. When this had started, he had just assumed he could give Dean what he wanted. He had sort of assumed that what Dean wanted was sex. He didn't think his brother was _that_ shallow, that he'd just want a one night stand from him, but he had been fairly certain his brother would have been happy to be receiving pleasure and being involved in the relationship that he wanted.

Except he wasn't.

Dean didn't just want to take from Sam, he wanted to give, too. And, weirdly enough, that was the thing that Sam tended to balk over -- the giving. Which was weird, because he would think that he would want to be given to, not taken from, but the taking he didn't actually mind. That made it a favor, a gift. Something to give back to his big brother, who had looked after him and raised him all his life. But Dean didn't _want_ a gift. He wanted to be able to put his hand where that symbol was being drawn on Sam's thigh and actually be _involved_ together, not just in a farce of a one-sided relationship.

That fact that his brother wanted so much always sort of made Sam pause.

Nothing about Dean could _surprise_ Sam, nothing about Dean would ever frighten him, but there were these little pockets, tightly clenched things that Sam just had to marvel over. Like the fact that deep down, his brother wanted a lover, one lover -- someone who would stay with him and actually be his.

Sam smiled a little. He felt, given a little more time, he might grow to be amenable to that. 

"Ah--...!” He was startled from his reverie when he felt his knees shifted apart so that a symbol could be drawn on his inner thigh. It was lower down, probably nearer his knee than the apex of his legs, but it was in the middle enough to make him jump. He grit his teeth though. Ugh. This was like the most humiliating doctors visit ever.

He vaguely wondered if this was how girls felt at the gynecologist.

Dean's gaze flickered up and a laugh caught in his throat. Jealous or not, suspicious of the whole process or not, Sam was still being molested by a grandma. 

Dean shared John's stance on ritual work to the extent that he didn't trust it, instinctively, but in Dean's case it was because it all sounded like bullshit and there was no way to explain how it worked -- shooting a ghost with rock salt was comparatively straightforward. But it was time Sam had answers about some of the questions Dean and John couldn't posit. If John thought this was going to work, Dean was willing to give it a chance, and he knew the symbol Bobby and Sam drew on the ceiling had trapped Meg, sure enough.

Ruth worked calmly and efficiently, leaving thin lines of henna paste to seep under the surface of Sam's skin. 

"Actually, your father had me work some protective magic on the two of you, too,” she commented to bring her thoughts in line as she realized she was growing distant. Over the past ten years she had found herself more and more likely to drift off during rituals, until language ceased and there was only the subtle fluctuations of surrounding energies as her will worked against reality. It was a natural progression of the meditative arts she studied, but it made dealing with other humans, at times, off-putting.

"Oh,” was all Sam had to say, feeling somewhat weird and distant. There was henna on both his biceps and the backs of his palms, spikes of brown running over the backs of his wrists. The symbols were all very old, and Sam was surprised by the fact that he only recognized about half of them. Of the Winchesters, he was easily the best at symbols and languages. He was the book worm, after all. John could piece together incidents and clues like a man working an intricate puzzle, but when it came to speaking things like Sumerian and reading Aztec calendars, his self training at the age of thirty-five wasn't the same as a boy who'd been trained in and made to study Latin since the age of seven.

The symbology served Sam well though -- even the symbols he didn't directly recognize, he could piece together some of their meanings. That one was Hebrew, that one Egyptian. There wasn't a lot of western European or South American symbolism in them, nor anything Asian. They read a little garbled at times, animals in strange places in the circle, lines broken by infinity signs, seven pointed stars instead of the traditional five. It was like reading English before the Great Vowel Shift -- it was a familiar language, but somehow twisted and difficult to understand.

He was fairly certain he had a full diagram of the Kabbalah -- the Judaic Tree of Life that divided and held together all worlds, all reality -- on his back, from the circles he had felt drawn there, and some geeky part of himself wanted to find a mirror and inspect it, because that stuff was complex -- even the oldest Kabbalahists would laugh at the notion of fully understanding the Tree of Life.

Jachin and Boaz, the pillars of Solomon’s temple, ran over his sides, severity on his left, mercy on his right. An insanely ornate circle was patterned on his stomach. He couldn't even begin to figure that one out -- especially looking at it upside-down. There were echoing designs on his legs, and he felt thoroughly silly and decorated, but by this point his academic spirit had taken over and he was far too interested to get distracted with things like embarrassment.

He blinked and felt a momentary understanding hit him, and he assumed it came from his studies in symbology, but a darker part of himself wondered if it wasn't something more than that.

"You're lifting the Veils, aren't you?” He'd heard of them, he’d read about Kabbalism, but he’d never really understood them. They were three great veils that hung from the branches of the Tree of Life. They weren't just sephira, the circular branches of the Tree, each representing a tangible aspect of creation -- Kabbalists wrote of the Veils as cloaking a part of creation transcending human understanding, a place called Ain Soph Aur, the Boundless Light. Sam knew the Veils in an academic sense, but he had always read that they were sort of...well, _beyond_. 

Reviewing his Kabbalism, Sam couldn't think of any other way of parting, or 'copying', a soul like Ruth had described except to lift at least one of the Veils and have a look at the eternal.

He was more fascinated than anything else, not having the reservations about the good side of the supernatural like Dean and John did, but even he had to admit that that was pretty powerful stuff.

"Oh?” Ruth murmured, finishing a character and looking up at Sam. "I wouldn't expect to hear that from a Winchester, after knowing John.” She began to draw again, meticulously.

"I'm a little different.” Sam said with a gentle but resigned tone. 

Dean was lost already. He had no idea what Sam was talking about.

Ruth smiled wry. 

"To answer your question: yes,” she said. "But no veils will lift for you. If you're feeling enlightened, tell me right away."

Sam barked a laugh at that. It was like those medical commercials: 'if you experience nausea or cramping, please notify your doctor immediately' -- 'if you're feeling enlightened, please notify your doctor immediately.'

And this, ladies and gentlemen, was his life.

"Right. Okay.” He smiled again, this time a little more relaxed.

Dean didn't get the joke. _Geek_ , he teased. He settled back in the couch cushions, the big tabby almost asleep on top of him. The cat was warm and weighing his legs down and he thought a nap sounded like an idea. Sam had made a new (old) geeky friend, and Sam would probably geek for the next couple of hours -- talking about stuff Dean had very little chance of understanding -- and then read books with John. Dean was more of an action guy.

Eventually, it seemed the tattooing was done, or, at least, Ruth settled back, and Sam felt a little bad, then, because she'd been leaned over and working for so long, and it couldn't have been good for her back.

"What happens now?” he asked, looking down at himself. He wiggled his toes a bit, looking down at what appeared to be tattvas on the tops of his feet.

"Now, you let that dry. You wait at least two hours and take a shower. When I introduce the crystal, things will go into motion.” Ruth straightened herself slowly, a few joints cracking, and she reached up to rub her shoulder. "Now, if that smears before it dries, we have to start over. Should I turn on the television for you?"

"Um...” Sam searched around for a careful way to sit down. "Sure.” He grabbed a foot stool and moved it next to the table, sitting down gingerly, holding his arms up a bit.

Good and uncomfortable.

It was a dial television, so there were only twelve channels. Dean offered to stand there and change them instead of Ruth, dislodging the dozing cat, much to its concern. When Ruth left for the back, again, too, Dean glanced over at his brother, smirking and looking the tattoos over.

Sam gave him a dirty look.

"Smirk. Face. Off."

Dean pulled a poker face and, deciding against a soap opera, flipped to the next channel. "Maybe I like tats."

Sam rolled his eyes. "They'll wash off in a few weeks."

The reality of twelve channels sunk in.

"Bad news, Sam. It's all daytime television."

Sam grunted in displeasure. 

"Whatever, I'll live,” he muttered, not much of a TV watcher anyways. He settled back on his stool, and tried to delicately shift away from the cat who was sniffing at the henna. Damned if he was going to let it mess it up.

" _You_ will.” Dean turned three more clicks and stopped. "On the other hand, I'll have to fess up. I _love_ this shit. And it is _so_ time for Montel.” Dean smiled to himself and then came over to shoo the cat.

Sam watched Dean with amazement. "There are...I...There are no words. None."

Dean looked up from where he was chasing the cat off into the hallway, shrugging. "Yeah. Well. A ninety year old woman just violated you.” 

Sam opened his mouth.

And then he shut it.

\----

Two hours later found Sam in the shower, washing off the crumbly bits of henna, finding dark brown lines beneath them on his skin. He rubbed at his arms and chest, moving down to his legs, watching the flecks run down the drain. He lifted his arms to try and get his back, but it was awkward. He briefly considered using the towel, but he had been thinking about Dean's thoughts from earlier -- about their relationship, and the physical(or sometimes lack there of) side of that -- and he decided to take advantage of the situation. It was easier for him to accept this on a practical level, anyways.

"Dean!” he called out, poking his head out of the opaque curtain. "Come in here."

Dean had been sitting in the living room, completely wallowing, but he picked himself up and made for the bathroom -- assuming Sam needed some kind of fetch and carry and didn't want to ask John.

Sam had turned off the water and grabbed a towel, tying it around his waist easily, then pulling back the curtain. He turned around, facing away from Dean. 

"Get my back for me.” The intricate depiction of the Kabbalah went from Sam's neck to his lower back. Each sephiroth was ornate, with scribblings of Hebrew within the circles.

Dean stared -- at the design, the flaking pieces of henna clinging to Sam's wet skin, and because of the request. He glanced over his shoulder, like he was sure one of the other two people in the apartment would be standing behind him, knowing. He shut the door. The impulse to lock it was there, but how weird would that be if John tried the knob? The only reasons John would get up from the table were to piss and to eat, and one of those would take him to the bathroom.

Dean had to shift into the actuality of the moment. One minute he was watching something good and trashy on a TV at least as old as he was and now Sam was showing a whole lot of skin. Disjunction had occured. He got over that pretty fast, in two long seconds, and he said, "Sure,” like it was no big thing.

He stepped to the edge of the tub, inhaling strange soap, humidity, and the faint, familiar scent of his brother's body. He smudged his thumb over the center of the design, feeling the muscles of Sam's back move underneath his finger. He smiled -- pressed the heel of his hand against Sam's skin. This, damp and cool from the water and pliable, he could work with.

It was functional but also sensual. Sam found it to be a good middle ground; some kind of stepping stone for them. He wanted to make Dean feel good, and he found that it _felt_ good as well, his brother's hand moving slowly over his back, brushing away the crumbling remains of the henna, leaving nothing but the deep ink in his skin.

Sam found the muscles in his stomach clenched a little when Dean's hand came down to his lower back, just above the edge of the towel. It was funny, he hadn't expected that, that slight sucking in of breath and tightening of muscles that came with first touches on first dates, that sort of excitement made from physical anticipation. Sam smiled a little.

Dean could feel Sam's responding under his hands, the way Sam's muscles jumped. It was enough. It sparked a hope. When Dean's hands had worked over Sam's back once he leaned in a little closer and chipped outstanding flakes of henna off Sam's skin with his fingernail, careful and following the elaborate pattern. He was quiet, silent in his thoughts, focused on Sam's body, the way the design drawn on Sam's skin reshaped itself in small ways as Sam breathed, and sometimes the way Sam's long hair clung at the nape of Sam's neck, little strands escaping to curl here and there.

Sam breathed slow, not saying anything, looking at the shower wall while Dean's hands pressed to his back, even after Sam was fairly certain that the henna had been brushed away.

"...I think I could end up falling for you,” he said lowly, an admission, to both himself and to Dean, because there was something in this moment that actually made his chest constrict in that bizarre, amazing, painful way. Dean deserved to know.

Emotion knotted and released in Dean's stomach. His hands drifted down to the small of Sam's back, his palms resting there as he leaned in and pressed his lips tenderly between Sam's shoulder blades. There was nothing brotherly about the gesture. It was a different kind of intimacy, carnal. Dean could feel his own heart beating against the wall of his chest in the momentary euphoria of actually, for once, feeling that aching loneliness present inside him abate. For a minute, Sam was another man and an equal, and Dean could imagine letting him in instead of fighting off those sudden moments of too much understanding.

Maybe it was easier because it was Sam's back.

Sam let out a slow breath, half turning his head, seeing the shadow of Dean's form behind him, and his lips quirked a little. 

It felt good.

Just standing there, with Dean. With Dean not feeling quite so alone. Sam not feeling quite so lost. 

_I'll keep you company, if you keep me found,_ he thought, but didn't say aloud, because it was too much for him to put it out there like that, but Dean's lips on his back felt like a salve.

Dean stepped back, his hands drawing away, but he looked at Sam's back -- memorized it, broad and lit with the sheen of water, marked with a tattoo that would fade. If Sam drew it all onto his body, Dean bet he could learn all about mysticism in a couple of weeks.

"Looks good,” he said, Sam's...boyfriend saying _‘the body art’_ and Sam's brother saying _‘all clean’_ , and then Dean had to be Sam's brother.

Sam turned around and smiled at Dean, rocking back on the balls of his feet slightly.

"So. Who wants to go make a copy of my soul in a rock? I know I can't wait,” he joked lightly, not dismissing the moment they had, but rather taking it in and moving on to the next step. It was an important moment for them, and it had cheered Sam up a little. Or a lot.

Dean brightened with the humor, corner of his lip twitching fondly. It was good to hear Sam crack a joke after having him so ticked off the past two days. Heck, it was always good to hear Sam crack a joke. Sam tended to brood, and the look in Sam's eyes when they lit up mischievous was always something, even if Dean was the _butt_ of the joke.

About ten years ago, Sam had been as mischievous and prank playing as Dean. They'd snarked back and forth with ease and poked at one another constantly. The events of the last ten years had fundamentally altered Sam's personality.

Still, it seemed he still had it in him.

"I'll be comfortable with that idea about never,” Dean admitted, but his tone was jesting and he had a little fantasy about beating Ruth up for Sam's soul. _I bet I could I take her. Think she's scrappy?_

Sam stepped out of the shower, pulling up his boxers up under the towel, then pulling it off and hanging it up.

"I think you'd wake up as a cat, and then you and Pumpkin would have to be roommates."

"That its name? Pumpkin?” Dean didn't remember anybody mentioning it. (Although Sam could've picked it out of somebody's brain.) He paused up, glancing back towards the door. "Wait. That cat's not..."

Dean didn't want to hear it used to be a person.

Sam laughed a little. 

"No. I mean...well, I don't _think_ so. I guess anything's possible.” He walked out of the bathroom. "But its name _is_ Pumpkin."

Dean followed on Sam's heels. "So you just hold that crystal and that's it? No big bang? No special effects?"

Dean needed to know what to expect, because if something unexpected happened, he guessed Sam might be incapacitated. He still couldn't wrap his head around how the drawings on Sam's body would get the results they needed.

"I suppose so.” Sam shrugged a bit, unsure of what else to say. "Ms. Feinman?” he queried, looking around the living area for her. "I'm ready."

Ruth emerged from her bedroom, at the end of the hallway. She nodded to Sam and headed towards the living room, expecting him to follow.

Dean trailed behind them. He knew he was out of his league, here, and it didn't sit as the greatest feeling. He stopped by the open doorway into the kitchen, looking in on John, who sat in the dining area with all his books around him. He headed over to the table, standing in front of it a little awkwardly. 

"She's gonna... do whatever to Sam, now,” he said, like he was just letting him know, but his voice said _‘Are you sure you're okay with this?’_

John looked up from his black and white notebook, the pages messy from having been turned so often. He ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, sitting back in the old breakfast table chair.

"I know it seems...bad, Dean,” he said, knowing that Dean was checking in with him for some kind of permission that this was really okay. "You and I work different than other players. They've been coming to her for half a century. Even Elkins came to her when he needed... _that_ sort of help,” he said it derisively, making it clear how much he looked down on those who used the supernatural in any way, even to hunt. Psychics were different -- that was a natural human ability, as likely to be given to a child as the ability to sing or be talented at a sport. Witches and their ilk, however, did not sit well with John, despite the fact that they were powerful and often incredible hunters. He and Elkins had argued over it often. That _otherness_ had taken his wife from him, and John didn't play around with forces like that. "Believe me, son. I wouldn't have come here if she weren't the only person could tell us what's happening."

"If she really can, I'm all for it. Things're...” Dean couldn't really say how things were. Dean didn't plan to talk with his father any time soon about a lot of things that very definitely _were_. "Did Sam ever call you from the cabin? Besides that one time?"

John shifted himself just slightly, the way he did when he focused his full attention on something. The notebook was forgotten.

"No. Why?"

Dean looked towards the door to the living room, where God Knew What was happening to Sam. He wanted to be there, but he made the decision to hit this base without Sam having to stress over it. 

"I thought he might've called. I should have. I'm sorry.” He straightened up unconsciously as he spoke, the way his father expected him to talk to him. "It's...those powers of his. You knew he was walkin' into my head in the hospital, but it's pretty much on all the time, now.” Dean chuckled, feeling briefly, distinctly uncomfortable. "No picnic, that. But...on the way here, today, again, he hit me upside the head with what _he_ was thinkin' and...that's new."

John frowned deeply. He didn't like what was happening to his youngest son. Psychics just _were_. Missouri had told him that she grew up knowing the things she did, and others had told him similar stories. Their powers didn't just pop up twenty-two years in. And generally, people didn't burn up over their beds. _And_ they didn't tend to have powers like _this_. Just knowing things was one thing -- actively reading thoughts and moving objects were quite another. That wasn't quite the same as being psychic.

Something was doing, or had done, something to his son. The son that Mary had died for. It didn't sit well with John in any way.

He lifted a hand to pinch his nose shut, then dropped his hand and breathed in harshly.

"You shoulda called,” he said, because it needed to be said. No matter the circumstance, he didn't let mistakes go unmarked. Then he was silent a moment, thinking. "Ruth's got her ways. We'll move when we know what she says. Might be good, however, if we kept you and your brother apart awhile, given that you seem to be the one getting all’a his crazy.” John had looks that he wore, and communicated through those primarily. He would never say _'What do you think?'_ , but he had different faces. There was the _'no argument, you do what I say'_ face, which he wore often, but this time he was wearing the _'you're allowed to give input, and I'll consider it'_ face.

Dean couldn't, really _couldn't_ tell his father how much he wanted all Sam's crazy -- other parts of Sam, too, and preferably as often as Sam was willing. His terrible apprehension of just blurting it out hovered within memory. It was the thought that Sam was possibly already going through some kind of ordeal and undoubtedly didn't need Dean freaking him out with those fears stuck on repeat that cancelled them out, gave him a confidence he hadn't expected.

"A couple of months ago I would've said ‘ _Hell, yes_.’ But I'm used to it, Dad. It can be a chore...but Sam's always been a chore. A lot of different chores. He's my little brother. I'd rather see it through."

John paused, looking over at his son, clearly thinking this through. He finally leaned forward decisively, flipping back open the composition notebook before him, flicking through several pages of scrawl.

"Good, then,” John finally responded. "You keep him safe, Dean,” he added as an order. "You keep him together."

And that, John's body language said, was the end of the discussion.

Dean nodded to his father. He felt better for dealing with it, better still for not giving himself away. Yet, anyway. He left before he had the chance, heading into the living room to find out what was going on with Sam.

Ruth had had Sam sit down in the red armchair, and she was sitting on the footstool in front of him, watching not the boy in front of her but the currents of energy around him and the crystal in his hands, her gaze focused somewhere only visible to a human eye that had been trained to see it.

Sam couldn't see it, but he could feel...something. He couldn't put his finger on it, or even describe it really, but he felt decidedly not normal. The minute Dean walked into the room his eyes snapped up to him and didn't leave, looking over at Dean like he was a harbor glanced through the waves of a storm.

Dean walked over to stand behind Ruth. He hadn't messed her up asking questions during the aura reading, and he figured whatever it was she did would remain beyond his ability to screw up. He studied Sam, but nothing unusual was going on as far as he could see, whatever Sam felt underneath. 

After minutes, the sensation discomforting Sam terminated abruptly.

"It's done,” Ruth told him, her eyes slowly coming into focus to meet his.

Sam felt like something had just washed off of him, leaving him oily and gross, and he bunched up his shoulders, giving a little twisting shake to his upper torso, as if to disperse it. Then he quieted and settled back down into the seat.

He glanced down at the rock that was him. He wondered if it was able to think, or feel now. He wondered if he was in there, confused, thinking something had attacked him and turned him into a rock.

The thought was extremely disquieting, and he rationalized that the rock didn't have a brain, so it couldn't think anything at all, even if it had some kind of soul now. Ruth took the crystal from his hands and he asked, "What do I do now?"

"Help your father with the bookwork, I guess,” the old woman suggested. "The kind of Hermetic ritual I want to do depends on certain elements aligning in the heavens, and here on earth. I'll have to wait until the moon's in the right phase to get the results I'm looking for."

"Aw, man,” Dean groaned.

Sam sighed and fwumped back against the chair. Jesus. That could be up to a month! Even more if she was waiting for the blue moon, which, if Sam recalled, had already occurred that year. He sighed, and, after a moment, looked like he was about to get up, but then paused, looking at the old woman.

"Ms. Feinman...I have some questions, actually. If you don't mind, that is."

"I think you've been patient enough to warrant a few answers,” Ruth replied.

"Are these gonna be questions I'm gonna love? 'cause otherwise I may go do...something. Something with beer. Like pool.” Dean gestured vaguely towards the entrance to the apartment.

Sam's eyes flicked to Dean's. 

"You can go. If you want.” He was aware that Dean probably wasn't all about sticking around in the old lady apartment with Pumpkin following him around. 

He wondered if the answers weren't things that Dean should also know, and a part of him was tempted to ask Dean to stay anyways, just to _be_ there, but that wouldn't really be fair to him.

Aside from vegging in front of the television, and the part with Sam's back, the whole day had been boring for Dean. Dean didn't need telepathy to know 'If you want' was a loaded statement. It was always a loaded statement. He weighed that fact against how likely Sam would be to end up talking about something completely unintelligible to him after six minutes of talking to the sorcerous old bag and how crabby he would get if he got stir crazy.

"I think I want."

Sam nodded.

"Okay,” he said, not sounding sore. Dean had been locked up in a cabin with him for three months, with his head open for Sam to see whenever. He really didn't think it was bad for Dean to want some space. "I'll see you when you get back."

Dean gave a wave that was half a salute and headed out of the living room, an anticipation that said _bar_ written all over him. He didn't have to find a hussy to have fun getting loaded and shooting pool. It was kind of one of his _things_.

Ruth watched him go before turning slowly back to Sam. The energy and alertness in her eyes when she first greeted the Winchester boys was beginning to wear thin, but she remained cognizant and willing to hear out what Sam had to ask, her back no less straight.

Sam paused, turning back to face the woman seriously once Dean had left the small apartment. He opened his mouth, but then he just...didn't know how to start. He wanted to know, but he didn't know the questions, let alone any of the answers.

"I...I don't even know what to ask any more.” He shook his head slowly. "How...I mean, can I control this?"

"'This is a broad topic. Your father told me you precognate, and that you may have manifested some kind of telempathy. Is there more to it than that?"

"Telempathy?” Sam asked. It was clear that it was a blend of telepathy and empathy, but it still sounded bizarre to him. Did people really use that word? Apparently there was _psychic slang_.

"It's what it sounds like. Remote empathy. Empathy's a very vague term. Anyone can be empathetic. It's not unusual for an empath to experience other people's dreams.” Ruth eyed Sam thoughtfully. "Has there been more than that?"

"Yes,” Sam said, because he couldn't lie to her. Or he shouldn't. He couldn't tell. Ruth had those eyes that made it difficult to tell if it was your will or hers at work. "I had the visions first. They started--...” God, how long had it been? It was hard for him to measure time any more, the coma having eaten a fourth of a year. "A year and a half ago. A little more, actually...Few more months and it'll have been two years. They started out as dreams, then they became...well. _Visions_. During the day and everything. About six months after that I had a vision where my brother died, and to save him I moved a large object without touching it. Other than that, the whole...telekinesis thing hasn't done anything.” He shifted a little, tugging at the hem of his shirt a bit, feeling strange and awkward _exposing_ all his dirty little powers. "After the coma, I started being able to hear people's thoughts. Dean...Dean I can hear almost anywhere. So long as I'm awake and he's not several miles away. But if I'm near people, or touching them, I can hear them. I mean, loud and clear. Not just an idea or feeling -- their complete thought. But no more visions. That's the really weird bit.... Since my coma I haven't dreamt. I mean, at all. I haven't had a single dream, normal or precognitive.” He shrugged a little. "Twice now, I’ve sent over what I was thinking to Dean. That's it, I think."

Ruth folded her hands against the crystal in her lap. 

"That's a little more than I've heard from your father.” She considered his words. "It's unusual for an esper to manifest so many different powers. Empaths are usually good at understanding sentiments. Telepaths can often understand and transmit language, but many do poorly comprehending emotions. It's the same with other fields... people who have visions of the future rarely manifest telekinesis. I'm not an expert. It's not my field of study. I've read enough to know that much, though. Usually... people who manifest as espers develop the ability to control their powers, over time. Like teenagers learn to control their hormonal urges. But for someone with so many abilities...your 'adolescence' may be longer than others."

Sam shook his head. "I just don't know why this is happening to me.” 

He sighed and hung his head for a second. He swallowed a bit.

"And...I think there's something else.” He looked up slowly. "I think...I think I'm seeing the dead.” He swallowed, feeling _her_ fingertips, cold and skinny and god as gentle as ever against his collarbone. "I can't tell, always, because they don't always flicker or anything...But I think they are."

"Like the girl who follows you?” Ruth searched her memory for stories of espers of comparable power to the young man before her. Reading his aura, he seemed balanced enough. A Tantric would say his chakra were little more out of line than the average person's, a Reiki master would have only the usual spiritual wounds of a life hard lived to heal. His aura was intense -- one of the most intense Ruth had experienced. But Ruth was no psychic and had little means to interpret it beyond the basic training she had attained through work and persuasion of more specialized practitioners.

Sam shut his eyes and felt Jessica's hair against his shoulders. 

" _Yes_ ,” he said, and his whisper burned.

"I can't see her. Not like you probably can. But I can sense her, well enough.” Ruth felt the feminine energy, saw the shadow of the soul where Sam's aura warped to accommodate her. "Seeing the wandering dead clearly...not just sensing them, or seeing those with the will to manifest.... It's unusual, certainly.” 

Sam stayed still, just so grateful to hear that.

"I thought I was going crazy. I thought….God, you'd think with all these other things in my head, I'd just accept this one. That hearing other people's thoughts would be the crazy indicator. But--...She died. Because of me. And I thought I was just missing her so much, that I was going crazy over her, seeing her everywhere...” He shook his head. Dean had told him about seeing Jess when he’d had his dreams in Sam’s coma, but after three months, Sam had begun to doubt himself again. He could hear her footsteps behind him when he walked. "God..."

"Developing your natural talents isn't a sign of insanity. But for someone with the power you have, you need to be careful. You could easily lose your grip on reality.” Ruth had no desire to sugarcoat things for Sam. She had witnessed many turn to sorcery and fail in her lifetime, and the fact that Sam had no control over the rate at which his abilities progressed she saw as dangerous.

He nodded a little, sitting back slowly. 

"Is there...I mean, how do I control these?” He ran a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. "The telekinesis hasn't shown up again, and the visions have stopped, so that's fine, but I need to stop invading my brother's privacy all the time."

Ruth mused over what she knew of psychics. 

"Do you want to stop invading your brother's privacy?"

"What do you mean?” Sam looked a little surprised.

"As far as I understand, espers’ abilities come down to self control. At first, certainly, they can be overwhelming, but they're nothing like my power. They're as much a part of you as your arm, or your eye. If I lost my focus and control, very real and malevolent entities would take an interest in subverting me. If you're negligent with your powers and don't work to change them, it remains more like a person who's inattentively clumsy."

Sam blinked. He'd never really thought about it like that before.

"I...” Well. He had no idea what to say. This was happening because he didn't _want_ to control them? "But I've been trying to get them to stop all this time!” he objected. "I've never wanted any of them, and I _tried_ to make them go away, but they just kept coming back."

"Have you? You've sat down and tried? Not just once or twice, but every day, like you were learning to play the piano?"

Sam paused. 

"Well...no. Not when you say it like that.” 

Ruth's expression was somber and reserved. "It's easy to say you want to do this or that, and very powerful to know people's innermost minds. Before I prepare to cast a spell, unless it's a bind and banish on the road, I ask myself why I need to use magic, if there's not more conventional means, who it will benefit, and what I have to gain. Even after all that, I've still used my magic selfishly."

Sam looked down. He wasn't so pigheaded as to deny it -- at least not to Ruth, who seemed to look right through him.

"I don't...I mean I don't _think_ I want to hear these things.” He shook his head a little. "What about the visions? How'd I get those to go away?"

"That, I can't tell you for certain. It could be your mind or body wasn't prepared to deal with them and, subconsciously, you shut everything down. It could be a result of whatever that demon did over your bed. It could be a sign of brain damage.” Ruth looked apologetic. “It doesn't strike me as particularly healthy not to dream, but I only know so much about conventional sciences.” 

From the breadth of her studies, Ruth was firmly aware of how much she did not know. Even learning what she had, stealing a spell here and borrowing a ritual there, she felt herself no expert in the magical sciences. She had learned what she’d learned purely on basis of necessity. In her younger days, when she had hunted actively, she had little interest in any technique slower than fast and dirty.

Sam took this in, and realized that he really did need those stupid visions. All the options that Ruth had listed weren't exactly _good_. He was silent for a moment, but then he realized he didn't have anything else. Not yet, at least.

"Okay...Thanks. For answering my questions, I mean."

Ruth's withered face relaxed, less severe, and she extended him an offer, aware she'd done little to put his mind at ease. 

"If you'd like to peruse the texts I have here, I'm sure I have a few that may comment on your particular problems."

Research and reading. To Sam it was his childhood, and also one of the few things he found relaxing.

“Yeah, alright. Thank you,” he said genuinely, though he wasn’t much further than when he started. _Every step forward,_ he told himself, moving to explore the bookshelves after Ruth had left the room.

He ended in a long limbed ball at the end of one of the couches, old books piled up on the coffee table. Pumpkin was sniffing them while Sam read his way into the evening.


	10. Chapter 10

Over the next couple of days the boys moved around the small apartment, being generally useless and in the way. Sam, at least, read most of the time, which, of course, meant he wasn't entertaining Dean sufficiently. They roamed the city a little, when Dean could convince Sam to go out, but eventually they just ended up getting on their father's nerves.

On the third day John shoved a newspaper clipping into his eldest's hands, saying 'Here. Make yourself useful.' How he’d had the time to look up supernatural incidents and still research everything about the demon was anyone's guess. He had the type of mind that could work on many levels at once.

Dean took the clipping into the living room and sat down. He read through it. He looked grim, but excitement stirred underneath his serious expression. Dean couldn't imagine anything better than getting out in the field and doing the hands on work he loved. 

"So. Rhode Island," he said, finally, to Sam. "Unless you wanna kick around here and do your book thing.” Dean was aware hunting wasn't Sam's favorite contact sport.

Sam glanced up from the pages of an old tome when Dean spoke to him, and considered his options. He and hunting had a strange relationship -- he actually sort of enjoyed bits of it. Finding a puzzle, figuring it out, twisting his mind around the problem until it made sense, then going out and taking something down, fighting until his life was on the line and the adrenaline kicked in and his stomached cramped, and the cold flood of relief and hot joy at victory. Yeah. It had its ups.

But there were things like his issues with his father, the fact that he'd never been given a _choice_ , and the fact that running around doing odd jobs at a time when their lives were already hanging in the balance, when his girlfriend's beautiful vengeance was hanging in the balance....Well. He and hunting had a strange relationship.

"No. I'll go," he said finally, closing the book. In the end he found he didn't like the idea of his brother going out there without backup. 

When he was eighteen, Sam had thought his brother could take on the world and win. Now that he was twenty-four he saw his brother's vulnerabilities, and he knew he was the one to cover for them.

When Sam made his choice, Dean didn't hold back that that was the option he preferred. It was difficult and uncomfortable for Dean to be in a still-new relationship with Sam, a relationship where almost everything was up in the air and in question, and have to act like months of his life hadn't happened. It didn't do anything for his personal security, that was for sure. Just having breakfast in the morning with John there in the room provoked a lingering disquiet. Dean liked to have time to himself from time to time, but going from persistent unease to going on the road without Sam sounded like a miserable scenario.

That, and Dean cut his near-death experiences by at least two-thirds with Sam around.

Dean handed the article to Sam. 

"Sounds like they had a grave robbery," he explained, summarily. 

Sam took the article, breezing it over.

"And some kind of mutilation to boot.” Sam glanced up at Dean, then stood up and began to gather his things together, getting ready to leave. "What makes Dad think this is something paranormal?" He didn't have that sound of doubt in his voice, but rather just a genuine curiosity. Mutilated corpses _did_ sound suspicious, but Sam knew that there'd be more information that would get John's attention, and he wanted to know what it was.

"I think I remember some clips about Rhode Island stuck in the notebook somewhere. If you wanna drive, I'll dig 'em out.” John's notebook was one of the only books Dean had read cover to cover since Sam learned to read on his own.

There wasn't a lot of stuff for Sam to grab, though he moved through the kitchen to borrow some of his father's weaponry, sitting in a bag in the corner. 

He nodded faintly to John, who returned the gesture, and that was all the conversation they really needed.

A good machete tucked in his back belt loop, he moved back into the living room.

"Yeah. Keys?" Sam held up a hand.

Dean tossed Sam the keys. In the time Sam was in the kitchen he'd gathered his few belongings up from around the room and stuffed them in his bag. Dean didn't believe as stringently in things like 'changing clothes' and 'brushing his teeth' as Sam did, so he hadn't unpacked much. He headed for the door, looking around for Ruth, or the cat, but neither of them were in sight. Shrugging his bag higher up on his shoulder, he headed into the hallway, relief palpable underneath his gathering focus.

Leaving Jersey was pretty good, Sam had to admit. He loved the normalcy of the place, but it had been jarring to be surrounded by so much real life while being in an apartment with a ninety year old witch of incredible power and his father researching demons in the kitchen. The juxtaposition was just too much for him.

The simplicity of the car and the road seemed almost appealing to him for the first time in a long time, and between the literal cabin fever and this incident, Sam had to wonder if life was attempting to force him to enjoy hunting or something.

Or maybe he was just getting too deep into Dean's head.

It was a four hour drive from Jersey City to Quidnessett, Rhode Island, in traffic. Dean settled down with the notebook in the passenger's side seat. It took him twenty minutes to find the articles he was thinking of, because of the density of the journal and his tendency to stop and read and remember snippets here and there.

"Here it is. Quidnessett, Rhode Island.” He browsed down the page. There were newspaper clippings there and a trimmed down card from the National Center For Missing & Exploited Children. "None of this is about grave robbery, though. It's missing kids. And here, a kid who died in some kind of mauling."

"And we're thinking they're related?" Sam asked, pulling off the freeway. It felt so bizarre to be doing something as normal as hunting (and it said something about them that _this_ was normal) when such huge and world altering things were going on all around them. And in them.

He pulled into a gas station and grabbed a map before returning to the car. He handed his brother a soda, looking at the map of Quidnessett. 

"Where do you think they'd take the body? Not the morgue. But they'd want to look it over, hold it in evidence. Medical examiners?"

"Article said they dug it up in the first place because of some dispute over the cause of death, so I'm guessin' medical examiner's.” Dean didn't have the answer to Sam's first question, but he thought about it. John expected them to do their own legwork, but it seemed pretty coincidental that he'd collected several articles about the same area he was sending them. Dean's first instinct told him things would probably tie together.

Things like this often did.

Medical examiner's wasn't exactly placed front and center on the tourist map, so instead they headed to the police station. Dean went in as Officer Grayson, because he passed as a policeman better than Sam did, coming back with the address they were looking for.

After that they had to go to a copy shop and make some medical IDs. Most of their collection of fake IDs had been damaged in the crash, the cigar box shattered and the cards crushed. They were having to build a new collection, slowly.

They got past the door as young residents sent in to pick up notes for their senior physician. A consult. People tended to believe anything said with a straight face and confidence. The IDs were just a formality, little details that fleshed the roles out for the unsuspecting audience. It was the end of the day and most of the staff had left. They were supposed to go find the medical examiner in the autopsy room. Instead, Dean broke into his office and photocopied his notes, leaving Sam as a lookout in the hallway.

It took Dean awhile. While the photocopier was running, he looked at the file cabinets along the office wall and thought of getting the autopsy reports on the mauled little girl while he was in there. 

Sam leaned against the wall outside the office, looking just the slightest bit antsy. He looked to the side when the door opened.

"You get it?" he asked.

Dean glanced up and down the hallway as he pulled the door shut behind him. 

"And more. Let's get out of here."

Twenty minutes later they were at Starbucks, reading autopsies in the corner. Dean hung up on a lot of the words, his thoughts disordered, but determined. 

"Consumed liver, heart, lungs...opened skull and consumed brain tissue, annnd...leg muscles, too. Consistent with an attack by a cougar...except for eating the brains. And, you know, the lack of cougars."

"That too,” Sam responded, as blasé as his brother about the gruesome details. They had both become used to blood and guts at a young age. He took one of the papers from the other report, breezing over it. "So this one’s the guy that was disinterred?"

"Yep. That's Freddy. How's he lookin'?"

"He has a slight case of being dead,” Sam muttered, reading over the report quickly as he spoke. "Buried during the afternoon -- that night he was dug up, so he was fairly fresh.” His eyes darted to Dean with a slight smirk. "Relatively speaking.” He looked back to the report. "Also looking pretty mauled, same deal as the little girl, pretty much. Except in this case, they didn't say anything about anything being eaten. Probably because they didn't think a cougar could dig up a body six feet down. They're looking at something like kids playing a prank.” He rolled his eyes. "Kids these days. Digging up corpses and stealing their livers,” he muttered sarcastically.

"So we've got something that eats organs -- or, somebody. Maybe this is a Jeffery Dahmer kind of thing. Necrophilia, cannibalism....” Dean took a sip of his coffee -- the board said it was from Guatemala, but it tasted pretty much like coffee. "Was there necrophilia?"

"You mean with Dahmer or with this particular corpse?" Sam asked absently, flipping a page over on the report.

"In your sexual history, Sammy. Was there necrophilia?" Dean looked at Sam earnestly, leaning his elbows against the table. 

"Yeah, this one time,” he mumbled distractedly. "I tell you what. Nothing makes me hotter than something cold."

"I'll keep that in mind. There's always ice cubes.” Dean grimaced appropriately. He looked back down at the papers in front of him. "How about with Freddy?"

"I was being _sarcastic_ , sicko.” Sam snorted. He browsed the last few paragraphs, then set the report down on the table with a sigh. "And no. No signs of sexual disturbance.” He reached out to take a sip of his coffee, wincing at the bitter taste but enjoying it.

"Could still just be a weirdo. But...he's a weirdo that murders little kids and _eats_ them. I'd be up for some vigilante justice.” Dean scratched at his jaw. "Huh. Dead people and little kids...I'm guessing our perp's not that strong."

"That, or particular.” Sam leaned back in his chair. "So. Let's say it's not a human. What're our first thoughts? Organ harvester. Eats the victims...probably corporeal, but there are some non-corporeals that take or steal human organs. Usually only one particular organ though, like the heart, or the liver, or reproductive organs. Usually not a mess of different bits and pieces."

"Sounds more like Home Town Buffet. It's goin' after the same stuff that keeps a mountain lion alive; gut tells me it's lookin' for dinner.” Dean frowned. "That makes this harder, though. If it just _happened_ to snack on Freddy, there, his family won't be much help."

"Well.” Sam paused to think, and sat forward in his chair again, leaning his elbows against the table. "We should look for history. I mean, as far as we know these are the only two incidents of this, but there could be more. If we can figure out which was the first time it occurred, and then check the town records for what was going on around then….” He set his coffee down, his knuckles just brushing the side of Dean's hand. He paused, and then thought better of it. He moved his hand slightly, letting it cover his brother's, in a very casual manner. He continued speaking. "If the first incident was something like a hundred years ago, we'd know if it was human or not."

"Library visit. Your favorite.” Dean let himself enjoy the touch of Sam's fingers. They'd avoided even casual contact for the last three days. Dean could go longer than that, technically, but he preferred a little human touch. "We should check out this girl's family, too, if they still live around here. Maybe somebody saw what did it and hasn’t opened up."

Sam's thumb slowly slid under Dean's hand, the pad of it pressing to the top of his brother's palm lightly. It just hadn't been practical or safe to allow any touching while they'd been living in such close quarters with their father. Unfortunately, it put them in the position of trying to resurrect the already sometimes awkward physical aspects of their relationship that they'd become accustomed to.

"Alright. Well, since you're not so hot on the library, it makes sense to drop me off there, then you go and speak to the relatives?"

Dean drew in an appreciative breath. 

"That's doable.” He had to admit he wasn't thinking about grisly mutilations just now. He took a drink, looked out the window towards the darkened parking lot. "Library's probably closed by now, though."

"Yeah...probably true.” Sam glanced out. He looked back to Dean. "I guess it'd make sense to find a hotel and get settled in."

"I bet there's plenty closer to Warwick," Dean suggested. He hadn't seen much on the way in, Quidnessett itself was a suburb, but they were on the edge of one of Rhode Island's bigger cities.

Sam nodded and took a big breath, standing up and releasing Deans hand to stretch. He picked up both their empty cups and walked over to the trash can, dropping them in, then headed to the door with his brother.

Dean could see this in his future. Criminal investigation (investigation techniques that were completely illegal). A little flirting. He'd been convinced that hunting was a bachelor's lifestyle. Maybe he hadn't been looking close enough to home. 

Indiscretion of that phrase not withstanding.

"Want me to drive?"

The keys were tossed and the brothers Winchester packed into the little Mazda. It wasn't too far to Warwick, and they found a suitably cheap motel.

Sam carried his bag into their room, half-unpacking in the fashion he was raised in. Now that the subject was on his mind (the subject of Dean), he couldn't seem to get it out. He wasn't entirely certain how to behave, and for the first time he was having trouble determining how he _wanted_ to behave.

Crap.

He was _nervous_. About _Dean_. Like _a girl_.

Dean could tell Sam wasn't in any sort of _all over him_ mode. Sam wasn't all over him. He dropped a thing or two here and there. He'd brought some of the weapons in from the car, they'd been in disuse awhile and he wanted to check them over. He wondered if that would actually be his plan for the evening. It was not optimal, but he allowed Sam his space. "I'm gonna grab a shower, man. I never really...bathed in Jersey."

Sam was about to open his mouth to say something, because clearly Dean was getting the wrong impression, but then he realized that he wasn't particularly enamored with the idea of being physical with a Dean who hadn't bathed in three days.

He snorted and walked over to Dean, leaning down to give him a kiss -- and man this was so much easier when you could hear the other person's thoughts, when he knew that Dean wanted him to do this. It was at that point he was ready to accept that Ruth might have been right about him.

He drew back from the kiss and patted Dean on the shoulder. 

"You stink. The shower idea is a good one."

"Creepy seventies-nostalgia apartments aren't where I get naked," Dean pointed out amicably. He grabbed his boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, flashed a smile and headed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The overhead fan whirred on and, a few seconds later, the shower hissed to life.

When Dean had finished with his shower Sam was sitting on their bed, in his sweatpants and night shirt, watching the TV.

Dean finished toweling his hair off as he walked out of the bathroom. He turned and lobbed the towel onto the counter. He headed over to the bed.

"What's on?"

"Crap,” Sam muttered, turning his attention over to Dean, watching the towel go flying. His eyes darted to his brother's night clothes, then he scooted over on the bed, making room for him.

It was funny. In the cabin, this had just been what they did. It was normal. Sam hadn't had to really question it. Now there had been this awkward _break_ , or pause, and now he wasn't quite sure where they stood. And it had been enough of a pause for Sam to think about it (while he was reading his books) and...to kind of start to _want_ it. 

And he found himself sitting up on the other side of their bed, looking at Dean, and feeling perhaps a little anticipation, a little bit nervous. It was all very odd.

Dean crawled up on the bed, swinging his legs over underneath him, falling back against the pillows. He sighed audibly as he let himself relax. His eyes perused Sam's nightclothes appreciatively, like browsing a book. Sam wore a lot of baggy clothes -- sweats and hoodies -- like there was something under there to hide. Dean didn't get that kind of outfit, but then, when John and Sam weren't around he slept naked. His green eyes flickered up to Sam's brown, he smiled like saying ' _Modesty's cute_.'

Sam sort of frowned, because being patronized wasn't so cute.

(Not that he didn't have to admit he was acting a little...well, not him. He tended to be more confident than this.)

Which is when he hit on it. Even though it had been Dean who wanted this at first, it had been Sam who had initiated all their more physical encounters. He understood the reason for this: Dean had been uncomfortable with the fact that he wanted to have sex with his little brother. And yeah, that was a pretty good reason to feel uncomfortable. But Dean didn't want to force the issue, so he had just let Sam take the lead in starting everything.

And suddenly Sam was sort of wanting _Dean_ to initiate something, and Sam was pretty sure that meant something about the way he was beginning to think about his brother these days, but he didn't really want to dwell on it.

Dean didn't get it at first. Sam had a lot up on him in terms of immediate perception of boundaries and possibilities. Watching TV next to Sam, he did understand that something was off. Sam kissed him enthusiastically enough less than half an hour ago, and Sam's body language was pretty receptive, but Sam was just sitting there, watching television, not making any kind of move at all. Finally, Dean took it upon himself to point out the obvious.

"I'm not a psychic."

"Well, just act like I'm not,” Sam said. "I mean, if you were with anyone else in this situation, what would you do?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Anyone else? Or anyone else I'd _have_ in this situation?" The questions were rhetorical, but they bought Dean a minute to reflect on the turn in the shift in balance -- for all the passing questions Dean wondered about Sam's love life, Sam had shown very little interest in Dean's. "I'd probably start out with necking. Let her keep watching TV.” Dean wasn't calling Sam a girl, but he would never have a man besides Sam in this situation. "She'd get into it, get to that point where's she's smiling like 'Okay, maybe so.' I've probably been rubbing her stomach for a minute or two. When her hips move, that's when I'd move to her chest. Then she'd start thinkin', 'Hey, maybe it's a good idea to kiss him back.' We'd make out a little. Hands'd get lower. I'd show her what she wanted. Around then...probably time to get my shirt off. After that, bets'd be off.” Dean explained it matter of fact, like he was talking about a hobby, describing any regular scenario. Dean didn't have much interest in this imaginary woman, but his voice was low, and he was pretty keenly interested in discovering, someday, how this kind of situation would be different with a man. One in particular.

Sam sort of stared at Dean blankly as he explained all of this to him. Then he rolled his eyes.

"And you accuse me of being all talk and no action. I wasn't asking for a play by play. I was saying...you know. _Show_ me.” He had turned off the TV by this point though.

Dean smiled. And then, without speaking, he pushed himself up, rolling over, and swung a leg over Sam's, letting his weight rest on Sam's lap, Sam’s thighs. He smirked, the corner of his lip twitching up, and then he his right hand up over Sam's throat, cupping his head just behind his ear, his ring cool against the skin of Sam's neck. He leaned in slowly, shifting his weight onto his knees, and then they were necking.

It was easier to be on top of Sam than having Sam on top of him. Not that Dean didn't like that -- but Sam was bigger and heavier and the geometry of the thing worked out better.

Sam looked up at Dean, sitting over his thighs, and felt his brother's hand come to his neck. He took in a breath, and he realized how god damned long it'd been since he'd done anything remotely like this. He'd kissed Sarah, and he and Dean'd made out a few times, and he had given Dean a few hand jobs, but it hadn't been since that Halloween night with Jess, in that incredibly ridiculous nurse outfit and a couple of shots in their bellies, her on the counter and the skirt up around her hips -- yes, that was the last time. The last time he'd done anything with anyone other than his own hand.

Now his head was tipped back, and his brother's head was between his neck and his shoulders, and his lips were against his skin. Sam shut his eyes lightly, letting out only the sound of his breath and the way his esophagus caught when he swallowed.

Heat pooled between Dean's thighs. His cock, already a little worked up, was stirring to attention now, interested, but it was almost a second thought. Dean was concerned more with Sam, listening as Sam's breath passed near his ear, listening to hear if it hitched. As Sam's breathing quickened, when Sam stayed relaxed underneath Dean's lips, he let his left hand slide over Sam's stomach. While his lips explored familiar territory, new again in the moment, he rubbed slow, small circles with his thumb.

Sam's stomach tensed as Dean's thumb moved in those little circles, and this time was different from the last time. This time it tensed in the good way, because Sam's head was still leaned back against the pillows, and his expression wasn't a grimace, but rather, almost serene. He was involved in the motions of his brother's hand, and he didn't realize how abstinence could heighten his senses. It had been almost two years since he'd had any kind of sexual encounter with someone else, the first time in all that time that someone else's hand was moving over his skin, rubbing against his muscles. It made all his reactions that more powerful.

Not to mention the person doing it was his brother, also another man, also the person with whom he had probably the deepest and certainly longest relationship with in his whole life. All of those things combined to make the sensations pretty damned fantastic.

Dean could feel Sam getting engaged bellow the waist -- feel it in a pretty intimate way. All the times they'd messed around, there'd been reminders that Sam was a man: the way he smelled, the calluses on his big hands, the strength in his body...Dean hadn't really gotten to consider, except in the abstract sense, the cock his brother definitely had (he'd seen it before, it wasn't like a mythological beast). Dean didn't have Sam's powers of skeptical consideration, he was pretty much completely into something or he wasn't into it at all. Dean liked the possibilities taking shape between his legs, more than a little. There was something about the location, the position, that reminded him suddenly what it meant, what it really _meant_ , to be experimenting with his own gender -- the potential consequences, so to speak. He wasn't sure he was ready and willing for every one of those, but the possibility was there.

He worked on building Sam's interest up, to secure Sam's involvement in taking matters to a certain conclusion Dean had had the liberty to consider, in previous relationships, _foregone_.

Sam could feel himself becoming aroused, and he could feel it intimately because he could feel his erection growing against the inside of one of Dean's legs. God, it was surreal. He finally opened his eyes, lifting his hands to either side of Dean's head. He moved Dean's head up, and pressed their lips hotly together, kissing him open mouthed right from the start, feeling his brother's lips pressed to his own.

Dean wasn't thinking too hard, about the surrealism of it all, about any possible repercussions. He'd done those things to death over and over in his mind. There was only the anticipation, now, and the idea of Sam letting him in, letting him share what he had no doubt was his own best asset -- his body and the things he could do with it. Dean couldn't say 'I love you', not romantically, he wasn't as smart, and he could be hard to be around -- Dean knew all those things. In bed, hands and mouth and legs and hips, he could show what he meant underneath all that as easy as breathing.

Dean's hand withdrew from Sam's neck and he let it join the other, and then his hands were moving on Sam's body, massaging the hard muscle underneath Sam's shirt. Dean remembered the tattoos there and imagined skin. When he was sure, felt confident that Sam had the same investment in sex he did, he reached down, arms crossing, gripped the edges of his shirt, broke the kiss, pulling back, and stripped his own tight t-shirt over his head. His amulet fell out of the collar, hitting his chest with a familiar weight.

Sam leaned back a little, eyes centered on Dean, and watching his brother pull his shirt over his shoulders, then over his head, and Dean was wearing only his boxer's. Sam's hands moved back to allow Dean's motions, then slowly returned, hesitantly coming to rest on his brother's shoulders. He felt the heat of his skin, the way it rested over bone and muscle. Over blood that was the same as his own.

This was a lot of new things for him. The newness of it all toned down the normal confidence and forcefulness that Sam exuded with every move.

Dean lowered his head, watching Sam with a thoughtful, open kind of expression, letting Sam work things out. He listened to his own breathing, the sound of his pulse, body swaying faintly under Sam's hands, pent up with building energy. When Sam had his balance, Dean leaned in, kissing him slow, mouth open, tongues meeting and touching, but slow, like there was nowhere they needed to go. He wanted Sam to remember he wasn't after a cheap thrill. Hell, it was kind of romantic.

Like in Ruth's apartment, in the shower, he could see Sam as this guy, this man he knew too well, but it wasn't all those parts he'd grown up with and bickered with and pranked on or even the parts he shared some brotherly backslapping with that he wanted a part in, now. He wanted this man he didn't really know, the one slow to open up, hesitating to let himself accept what Dean was willing to give. Dean wanted to know why that was, what was going on inside Sam's head, what could even come close to blowing Sam's mind as much as Sam short-circuited his, and if he could have a place in it. The position he was aiming for wasn't temporary, and he could only guess and didn't know how much he was asking.

Sam was a little different. Dean hadn't changed a whole lot in four years, so he couldn't separate "brother" from "man." Dean was Dean, whole and unadulterated. He just was, and always would be, _Dean_. Not to mention he was in Dean’s head now, hearing all of Dean's thoughts. 

And Sam was still turned on. Still hard. Despite all that. Perhaps because of all that.

Sam's hands moved slowly down Dean's chest, finding himself looking at it differently than any other time before. He knew Dean's body quite well, but he would never describe it as 'intimate knowledge', like he would now. 

And god if the way Dean was kissing him now wasn't exactly the way that Sam liked to be kissed.

Dean let Sam's hands find their way around his body. Usually, if they weren't making out, Sam got straight to the point -- that was _hot_ and _relief_ and _release_ , but it wasn't near all Dean wanted. That was this, and now, and Sam's actual, tangible interest. The loneliness vanished in the heat of Sam's body, and the fear of abandonment quieted, slunk away somewhere deep, and slept. Underneath the arousal -- demanding and intoxicating -- Dean felt a quiet kind of happiness, one he didn't need to go smirking or cracking a joke or getting embarrassed about.

Sam swallowed hard, their lips still slipping slowly against one another, his jaw hanging open to allow the twists of their tongues.

He felt his hands ease down Dean's chest, to the hard muscles of his abs, and then, unexpectedly, he felt himself thrust up against Dean, his hips jerking, and he let out a heady moan.

Dean drew back to breathe, not even an inch, enjoying that sound and the fire it stoked beneath his belly, nuzzling against Sam's cheek, swaying in and kissing him again, letting his knees slide a little further apart on the bed. 

"Take your shirt off?" he murmured, letting Sam choose. The last time they'd tried that, it didn't go over well.

Sam sucked in a breath, then slowly let it out. He reached down for the bottom of his shirt, and then began to pull it up his body. He sat forward, pulling it off and over his head. He discarded it over the edge of the bed and leaned back against the pillows. He looked up at Dean, searching his face for his reaction.

Dean met his eyes, first, because if Sam showing skin provoked the kind of reaction it did before, he didn't want to go there. When he saw Sam hadn't shut off, he reached up, his fingers finding Sam's ear, rubbing the edge with the tip of his thumb, keeping Sam engaged while his own gaze dropped down, followed the intricate lines of henna over Sam's powerful shoulders and chest, inevitably down to the waistline of Sam's sweats where Sam's belly-button creased Sam's stomach and the faint trail of hair began that led somewhere Dean wanted to be. _Damn_ , his thoughts said. Any snarky comment he'd ever had in him about how he was the good looking one or Sam was a girl evaporated off the hot that was his little brother.

Sam let out a soft laugh at the thought, but it was light hearted. It was a pretty good compliment, actually, to hear Dean think that. It made Sam relax a little, and he was surprised by how invested in that opinion he was. He thought he had left that behind him -- being caught up in his big brother's opinions of him. Apparently not, because he had just been tense, wondering what Dean would do, or think.

Which was positively stupid because Dean knew what he looked like, had seen him naked all over, and was attracted to him, so he already _knew_ Dean liked the way he looked. But for some reason he was still reacting strongly to every one of Dean's actions, or thoughts.

Sam reached up, pulling Dean down to him. He shifted this time, until he was laying back fully, and he could pull Dean down on top of him, their chests and stomachs pressing together.

It had been months since Dean got so much skin on anybody else's. The thrill was immediate, lancing head to foot. Dean thought about the lube he bought back in Jersey City, in the pocket of his bag with old condoms. Astroglide. Indian girl he did anal with swore by the stuff; Cassie swore, but it was more like ‘about.’

Maybe that was too much information.

Dean looked a little sheepish, a little uncomfortable. He hadn't gone to a sex shop or anything. He hadn't bought lube just to have in his bag just in case, sometime, he suddenly needed it.

He totally had. But, seriously, they could do _other things_.

(Dean had no clue why Sam kept him around.)

Sam's body surged up against Dean's, enjoying the long feeling of flesh against his own, and through his sweat pants and Dean's boxers he could feel his brother's cock, hard and wanting.

He only had a moment to consider how fucked up all this really was when he was distracted by Dean's very ADD sex thoughts.

"Dude... _What_ are you thinking about?" He couldn't even tell at this point.

Dean had just reached that point where he was breathing through his mouth, he sounded a little breathless, saying, "You, uh, ever...?" Ever was supplied, in a general sense, by the idea-more-than-word that followed.

“Ever?" Sam looked up, raising his eyebrows faintly. Then he got it. "Oh.” He blinked a bit. "We're doing, uh. That?"

Dean's face bobbed back with that little frown that said _I'm offended you know exactly what's going on with me._

"No.” He mulled it over. "...'less you wanna."

He offered, but he wasn't sure he had it in him to go dig the lube out. Anywhere that wasn't naked with Sam seemed like an unnecessary pit stop.

"No. I mean. We can. If you want to.” Sam sounded a little stilted, but still willing. He was having a little _moment_ trying to contemplate what it might be like to have someone else inside of him. He hadn't even stopped to consider it the other way around. It would have been just too bizarre to contemplate.

"Sam. If you did everything _I_ want to, we wouldn't get out of here for a month.” Dean said it, but he was right on the line. Get out of bed and get the bottle, or stay here and try giving a blowjob? Both options were more than okay. A tip either way and he was committed.

"I didn't say do _everything_ you want to. I was asking if you wanted to do _that_.”

Oh, this was a good sign. It totally spoke to how mature they were, and how ready they were to approach this, that they couldn't even say the name.

Dean huffed, his eyes shifted distractedly, and he made up his mind. 

"How about I do not _not_ want to be puttin' my mouth all over your body right now? Let's focus on that one. I'll still wanna do _that_ tomorrow, and next week."

That had to be the most ridiculous conversation Sam'd ever had in his life.

Oh wait, other than that one time he had convinced his brother to go get tested so that they could have sex together. Ha ha.

Or that conversation about _cheese_.

"...alright, then."

Dean was grateful Cassie had given him plenty of practice keeping an erection while sex stopped for bickering. He forgot about Sam's mouth, sliding down Sam's body, kissing his collarbone and then at the top of the circular Medal drawn over his chest. His momentary frustration dissipated rapidly with the promise of Sam's skin to explore.

Sam forgot about snarking by that point. After all, no matter how irritating Dean got, he _was_ pretty talented when it came to matters in bed. Or, at least, that was what Sam'd always heard. He was about to find out first hand, it seemed.

Dean was already past his collarbone, and Sam stared up at the ceiling as he felt his breath speed up a little.

Dean's mouth followed the symbols drawn in Sam's skin, kissing and licking, teasing with faint suction. He'd watched them go on, at least, those he didn't watch he'd been aware of, and every one was a place some stranger got before him. Dean went over that central Medal, a little vindictively, staking out his claim, and his hands plied Sam's sides and his stomach, encouraging his big body to move, to respond.

Sam would honestly say that there was no where on his body that anyone had gotten to before Dean. Dean had had a unique claim on him, on every joint and stretch of skin -- a claim Sam had revoked when he'd left home for college. A claim he was now allowing Dean to stake again, in an entirely different way.

Sam sat up a little, leaning back on his elbows to watch Dean's progress down his body, finding the sight of it even more powerful than the feel. He swallowed and made a low noise, the apex of his legs giving a little throb.

Sam's eyes on him and the sound in Sam's throat provoked a shudder in Dean's stomach that trembled through his body. He looked up at Sam, lips parted, shower-damp skin just beginning to sweat. He memorized Sam's face, and then his eyes followed the patterns on Sam's chest to his left breast and then Dean's tongue and his lips assailed Sam's peaking nipple, pleased to feel it draw tighter under his administrations. He liked it so much, he tried out the other one.

It was an incredibly odd sensation, because honestly, no one had ever done it to him before. With Jess, the positions had always been reversed. After all, in Sam's mind, a woman's chest was far more deserving of attention than a man's. But having said that...god, that feeling went all the way up and down his spine.

Dean spent a little while around there, kissing one side and the other, flicking his tongue against a nipple, biting Sam softly underneath his arm and feeling all those muscles lurch beneath him, dipping down to kiss up the hard line of Sam's abdomen, Sam's hard-on pressing against his stomach. He had Sam's undivided attention, and that was one hell of an aphrodisiac. There was no question of how much Dean wanted that -- just the two of them, the history of their lives the history of the world, no world beyond Sam. To be in the moment this completely was all Dean looked for and something he almost never found.

He kissed and he nuzzled his way down to Sam's belly button, attended it playfully with his tongue and his nose, encouraging Sam's hips to get their hopes up. He glanced up Sam's long body, wanting to see the younger man's face and wanting to make sure, really _sure_ that Sam was with him before he moved into some foreign territory.

Sam stared down at Dean, their eyes making contact, and he realized his brother was looking for permission to continue, to move past that yet unchallenged barrier at the waistline.

Sam licked his lips slowly, then nodded.

Dean had nothing to work himself up to in terms of morale. Conceptually, going down was old hat. In execution, factors existed that made it all pretty experimental -- but Dean had tried out more radical bed play on the fly. He climbed down those last few inches, wetting his own lips, looking at the bulge in Sam's sweats, considering the challenge. He touched the waistband of Sam's pants, pulled it down with one finger to check -- no boxers. All right. That didn't nix his first idea, and he smiled to himself and leaned in unhurried, kissing Sam's erection through the fabric, mouthing the length of it experimentally through the cloth, leaving damp patches.

Sam groaned. He felt Dean's mouth press against and move slightly around his length, giving him something to really thrust against for the first time that evening, besides his brother's thighs. Plus, the cloth rubbed against his skin, driving him a little higher, his erection a little harder.

Dean had received blowjobs before. Although usually a little distracted at the time, he had a basic idea of what they involved. But he was starting to get the idea that Sam was a pretty big guy with a pretty big dick, and, seriously -- how did girls do this? He pretty clearly remembered his penis and he remembered it being all the way down some chick's throat and that? --how had that happened, anyway? He made a face at Sam's dick, there under the fabric, shook his head a little and hooked his fingers in the sweats' elastic waistband, sliding the fabric down over Sam's hips until he had Sam's erection there, out of Sam's pants.

That was awesome. It was something to look at. Dean had never paid attention to another guy’s cock, not in general, but Dean knew his own tackle and he could guess the kinds of sounds he could get out of Sam's throat and the things he could make Sam's body do if he could just figure out this piece of equipment. He was actually looking _forward_ to this, but...

For the first time, Dean felt a little hesitation, a little apprehension.

It felt good. It'd been years since he felt that about sex.

Dean reached out his hand and grasped careful, let his damp palm move against Sam's dick, short, light strokes, getting a gauge on his reaction.

Sam's eyes widened just the smallest amount, watching his brother's hand descend, and then grasp him. He let out a hiss. 

It forced him to close his eyes, letting himself get involved in the pure physicality of it, the way that it felt, and he parted his thighs a little more, showing Dean how much he was now welcome there.

Dean smiled, an open-mouthed, disbelieving little smile. _That is the_ best _sound._ He wet his lips again, a different reason this time, a different sort of preparation, his hand still moving, strokes still small. He didn't want Sam getting off before he had a chance to figure some of this out. Okay. No teeth. He remembered teeth as _bad_. Taking a couple of warm-up breaths, wetting his lips one more time, he caught the head of Sam's cock on his tongue, let his lips close around it. Sam gasped.

Okay. That was Dean's _mouth_ on his _cock_.

Suffice it to say, Sam's mind was a little blown. His brother was about to give him a blow job. _Was_ giving him a blow job. He let himself fall back against the pillows, shutting his eyes tightly. His fingers stretched out and twisted in the bed sheets, and somehow all the history between them didn't make it feel fucked up, it made it feel like they'd just had the slowest, longest build up in a relationship ever. Twenty four years of history, all building to Dean between his thighs, and the fucked up beauty of the way two brothers, two hunters, could wind together so tightly.

Dean needed a few minutes before he could appreciate the attraction of a man's gear in his mouth. He had no muscle memory to guide him; it took up a little more attention. The taste...a little sour, but Dean was hard enough and willing enough that even that was sexy. His fingers rested loosely against Sam's length while he searched for his rhythm, letting Sam slide along his tongue like he remembered feeling, opening his mouth and going down at first, closing it and rising up -- but he thought he could keep his mouth around it both ways, maybe, and after a few seconds he tried, and it worked.

Sam forced himself to restrain his hips, and their persistent need to thrust. He was aware of the fact that Dean'd never gone down on another man, and while Sam hadn't either, he was pretty damned certain of how different it was than going down on a woman. He didn't want to thrust up at the wrong time and hurt him.

He had to take a moment to marvel over the fact that he was okay with shooting his brother with a shotgun full of rock salt, but he was worried about hurting him with his _dick_. Because, that made sense.

Dean decided he could go further down on Sam than the first two or three inches. Dean remained extremely skeptical of his ability to do more than that, felt himself choke up a little when he tried, throat clenching. The motion involved, the bobbing of his head, that was getting easier, falling into place. His lips sucked wet and willing; the sound of Sam's heavy breathing was encouragement enough. He experimentally pressed the pad of his thumb down the sensitive underside of Sam's shaft, wondered if he could get his hands into the job.

Unfortunately, that seemed to be the undoing of it. Sam felt the sudden pressure of Dean's thumb, pressed against that sensitive skin, and he jerked his hips up suddenly.

"Shit!" he cried, letting out the expletive in a sexually charged tone.

Sam slammed into the back of Dean's throat and Dean gagged, his stomach lurching up. He barely had the sense to push himself off Sam before he was coughing deep and choked, bile in his throat, gagging three more times before his stomach sank down and he heaved in air ragged.

All the tension fell out of him while he breathed and he lowered himself down off his hands, rested his forehead against Sam where Sam's hip met his thigh, eyeing Sam's cock with disbelief out of the corner of his eye.

"...tryin' to _kill_ me...?"

Sam looked down at him in concern.

"...sorry,” he muttered lowly, aware that was sort of insufficient. "Kinda...couldn't control it."

Dean met his eyes over all the ridges of muscle between them. 

"...aw, don't look at me like that.” Dean pushed himself back up, face contorting in a couple different ways as he swallowed the bile down and let his breath catch up. "Alright. Setback," he admitted, gathering his resolve together.

"We could do something else,” Sam offered, because he felt pretty bad about making his brother gag.

"What?" Dean set in stubborn, waving Sam's concern away. "I got it. More hands, less mouth."

However Sam felt, it felt to Dean like a personal failure. Dean didn't fail at sex. (Damn it.) He pulled at the waistband of Sam's sweats, decided to get the pants completely off -- something to do while his stomach calmed down.

Sam shifted as he felt his pants pulled down, stripped away until he was fully nude. He felt a little useless, just lying there and not contributing at all, especially when this was uncomfortable for Dean, but there wasn't a lot he could do about that.

(At least, not without offending his brother.)

Dean glanced up at him, his irritated expression fading to a kind of puppy-dog look (nowhere in the ballpark of Sam's). His eyes wandered a few seconds, and then his jaw firmed up. 

"Sam. I wanna do this.” Dean hoped he hadn't screwed up his first chance at getting Sam off with his goddamn need to breathe. "I wanna hear you make some noise for me. I want you to come.” He shrugged; winked. "I'll handle my end."

He got back down between Sam's legs, because letting Sam argue his case sounded like a turn-off. This time he wrapped his hand around Sam's shaft, gave him something to thrust into while his mouth worked him hot and slick.

Sam gritted his teeth, not really wanting to argue with Dean, anyways. He felt fingers wrap around him, and he ran his tongue over his teeth, breathing in deep.

Dean was glad he had spent some time getting Sam worked up to this point, because it was going to take some practice before he called himself good at blowjobs. 

And that's what Dean was doing. Sucking Sam off.

When the reality hit him, when he was suddenly back in the moment, nothing seemed as difficult. It was Sam's skin under his mouth, Sam's skin under his hand. Dean had talent with skin, natural and practiced. His own cock went a little stiffer, pleasure rolled through him, and he slid a hand under Sam's leg, easing it up. His lips left Sam's head to kiss at Sam's inner thigh, his hand still coaxing on Sam's dick. So he hadn't figured out that 'deepthroating' thing yet -- so what? His lips moved closer to the juncture of Sam's thighs. 

It wasn't like Sam was about to be picky, either. Not that Dean wasn't great at what he did -- he was. But at this point Sam was starved for touch, and the history and affection between him and his brother would more than make up for anything.

If there was anything to be made up for. 

As it was, Sam arched his back, shutting his eyes tightly as he felt lips on his inner thigh, and his foot pressed against the bed to push his hips up slowly, into the warmth of Dean's hand.

Dean let himself enjoy himself; everything went smoother. His mouth explored between Sam's legs, his world smelling like Sam and sex and Sam's body moving with those delicious little jerks. His mouth explored everything south of the action that was really getting Sam going before it returned, finally, to Sam's cock, and he tried out some things with his tongue, letting Sam's hips set pace of his hand.

The muscles in Sam's belly strained with each jerk and thrust, getting into the rhythm and motion of his brother's hand. His fingers tightened in the sheets, and he let out a low groan, feeling Dean's tongue run over him, leaving a hot/wet/cold trail up his length.

It was music to Dean's ears, better than Zeppelin. He closed his mouth around the head of Sam's dick again and he let his lips go with Sam's motion, because the way his hip were rolling up was growing more insistent. His other hand stroked Sam's leg, keeping his body steady.

Sam shoved his hips back against the bed, holding back his need to thrust as he felt Dean's lips come over the head of his erection again. His breath was picking up, and, in some ways, the fact that he couldn't move was just heightening the pleasure.

He pursed his lips, making a humming noise as he felt all the sensations at the apex of his legs flooding out over his body.

It was a lot to swallow but, then, Dean was a drinker. He pumped his hand against Sam's skin, fingers at the base and mouth at the head, until he felt Sam relax underneath him, salty taste coating his tongue, a kind of strange taste, too, like the smell of bleach in a laundromat, less sweet than he was used to with women. He eased off, and then he backed off when he knew he'd be feeling too sensitive to want to be touched for a minute -- his face said ' _How about that?_ ', but inside he was smiling, thrilled and turned on and intoxicated. As he caught his breath he looked up at Sam.

Sam was breathing heavy, taking a moment to let all that roll over him. He felt hot all over, and his blood was pumping hard through his veins. After a moment past, he looked up, eyes making contact with his brother's. He froze when he saw the look on Dean's face, the way he was looking at him, the heat in his eyes. He wasn't afraid of it, rather, he was caught in it, the way his brother's eyes took his body in.

Dean got an eyeful of his own handiwork -- Sam's body flushed, Sam -- pretty much a control freak -- sprawled satiated senseless on the bed. There was pride to feel there, a sense of _I did that_ and a sense of _Look what Sammy let himself do_. Even with a demanding hard-on heavy between his legs, Dean took a minute of satisfaction. He drew in a long a breath and exhaled slowly. A series of expressions passed over his features but he decided, finally, "Worth waitin'."

Sam's eyes flicked away then back at that, and if he was about ten years younger, he might have coughed or flushed, but he was twenty four, and no longer so susceptible to such things.

Instead he smiled a little and reached up, his hand tracing one side of Dean's jaw.

"C'mere,” he said, pulling Dean down with him, over him, until Dean was on all fours over him, and he was lifting his head to kiss Dean.

He could taste himself on his brother's lips, and it made him shiver a little.

Dean kissed him. It was the kind of moment for kissing, if you were in any sort of serious romantic entanglement...and Dean was head deep. He'd been less about kissing and more to the point before Sam kept him on make-out only probation, but maybe it had expanded his options a little. 

Just-kissing on top of his little brother, a bigger man, when he had an erection he'd do almost _anything_ to finish off was an intensely vulnerable situation, but a more comfortable kind of exposure than sudden-and-on-accident in the car.

Sam kept it to just that for a moment, enjoying the movements of his brother's lips against his, the taste of himself on another's lips, and the fact that all that was becoming erotic to him.

But he was aware of Dean's situation, and he wasn't about to leave him hard like that. He reached down, his hand pressing to Dean's stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of Dean’s boxers and moving down to the juncture of his legs, rubbing around the base of his brother's cock.

Dean's hips jerked a few, hard times against Sam's hand. His mouth fell open and took three throaty breaths and then he remembered the hum in Sam's throat when Sam came and let the orgasm hit him, because _damn_ he'd been close -- he could've drawn it out, it didn't take him by surprise, but there was no reason. Dean had a face like he had seen the Holy Ghost -- amazed and humbled -- when he was cumming. He made a mess in his shorts and on Sam's stomach and he found Sam's lips and kissed them twice while he tried to find his breath again.

Sam's tongue ran over the inside of Dean's upper lip, and he sighed out against them, his eyes shut. After a moment though, he opened them, pulling his hand out of Dean's boxers, and pulling his brother slowly down to lay on top of him. Dean’s weight was heavy, but comfortable. It was enjoyable, for just laying there, together, for a moment.

For being the one that managed to keep an article of clothing, Dean felt as open as he always did after sex. He didn't shut himself down this time, though, just shifted his body until he was comfortable on top of Sam and enjoyed how everything he touched was warm skin.

Sam's arms weaved up slowly, beneath Dean's, around his brother's torso, until his hands rested on the other man's back. He could feel Dean's heartbeat at his sternum. He turned his head, searching out his brother's lips again, finding he wanted more contact with them, slow and post-coital.

Dean made a sound like ' _Hn_ ' in his throat and consented to slow kissing, lulled by the way his body rose and sank as Sam breathed. Even on top of the covers, he was pretty sure he could fall asleep like this, twined companionably with the most important person in his life, a hand under Sam's shoulder and a hand in his shaggy hair -- feeling as complete, as completed, as he felt empty and afraid, desperately emotional, on his own. That kind of sentimental understanding...he wouldn't want to talk about it, by morning...maybe someday.

Eventually their bodies shifted, until they were more lying against one another, than one on top of the other, Sam still slightly under Dean, but more to the side. 

It occurred to him, then, that he was dozing off. He shifted out from under Dean, moving around to get the sheets out from under them.

"Take your shorts off, man,” he said, recognizing the possibility of some literally sticky situations in the morning.

Dean groaned at the idea of moving that much and pushed his boxer-briefs down over his hips. For the second time in recent memory he used them like a dishrag, paused, and put a hand on Sam's shoulder to still him, cleaned the smears on his stomach up, too. He stopped a minute, paused, laughing and resting his head against Sam's shoulder because, _dude_ , he was cleaning his jizz up off-- _Oh, man_. He pitched the boxer-briefs onto the floor, looked at Sam optimistically.

"This means I can sleep naked here on out, right?"

Sam snorted at the pure _Deanness_ of that, but he nodded, because...why the hell not?

"Yeah, sure.” 

Dean put on a self-satisfied smile, rolled over on his back, kicking and scooting his way under the covers, going through a couple different faces before he shifted his shoulders and relaxed on the pillow.

He looked up at the plaster ceiling while Sam got himself situated. "Could get used to that taste," he decided, flashing a smirk, before his eyes slid over towards Sam.

Again, Sam felt that instinct to become flustered, but he didn't give into it, out of stubborn, brotherly pride. He settled for rolling his eyes, but leaned in to kiss Dean again anyways, settling down next to him, so close to him that most of the bed went unused.


	11. Chapter 11

Their bedroom was dark. Sam was pretty used to the dark, and Jess was used to sleeping in it. Sam, as always, slept very little. His arm remained around her middle, and his mind wandered.

He remembered vividly the night Jessica knocked on his dorm door, crying. He hadn't had a lot of pity for her.

_"What?” he asked coldly, and she didn't say anything. For a moment he considered that this was something different. She was quiet. He opened the door and let her in._

_She had told him about the guy she had been seeing. It was their freshman year, and like all freshmen, they were both idiots. She had slept with a guy, and, of course, the guy hadn't called her since._

_Sam, because he was too absorbed in his own self-pity and righteous (so he felt) indignation at his family, about how unfair life was, about how no one could possibly hurt as much as he did, felt little sympathy for her. But he told her she could stay in his room._

_She had smiled a little, just a little, and said that she had realized, when she was upset, that he was the only real person she knew. All her friends, the sorority girls, would never understand._

_And for some reason, that was what had caught him._

It wasn't like everything turned around right then. It had taken a year of push and pull and _shove_ for them to even begin to fit as friends, but tonight they were sleeping in the same bed, and they had been doing so for the last few weeks. It was her room, but Sam was beginning to consider asking her if she wanted to get a place with him. Maybe.

She slept deeply and he slept lightly, and she yelled at him when he sank into self-pity, and he told her frankly when she was being shallow. They were oddly good at noticing one another's flaws, and actually pretty good at loving those flaws. She was the only one who'd put up with him, and he was the only person who recognized that she was real, not just the flakey girl destined for marriage and babies that her family had wanted her to be. It was funny that she turned out to be the empathetic one and he turned out to be the confident one.

He let her read books and she let him sleep and just _be_. He had no words to say how he appreciated her. 

Her bed was pretty small -- it was just a single -- and they cramped up close together in it. This meant very little sleep for Sam, who was so used to waking at the barest of sounds that having her so close would wake him every half an hour or so, when she moved.

It was odd. He didn't remember having that problem when he was little. He wondered when he had grown into it.

The moment he became a true Winchester, he supposed. Tweaked out and fucked up and always waiting for the other shoe to drop. And he was staring at her, waiting for just that.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, and her memory held him in return. He could feel _Her_ , standing behind him, but he refused to look.

"It's just a dream. A memory. A figment,” she said, and her voice was so familiar but so _not_ , because spirits didn't speak like people did.

"But she feels real,” Sam argued, unwilling to let go of it. He could smell her hair, and felt it tickle his chin, and he remembered getting the apartment with her, the day she told him she knew he could do it, the way she had changed so much and he had seen it all, and he had made her just like she'd made him. They were a pair, and he was determined to let nothing separate them.

"Not even death.” Her voice wavered behind him.

"Stop it."

"You have to wake up. You have to see these things."

"No, I don't. I'm happy here."

"You were happy, then. You refused to look, then, and you know what happened because of it."

He choked at her words.

"You're saying that you died because of me...” he said, and though he phrased it like a question, he said it like a confession.

"I died _for_ you. I knew what I was doing Sam. I'm not an idiot."

And Sam was almost amused to hear a spirit talk like a person, and he knew that only Jess, his Jess, could transcend existence and bring snarking with her. The doll in his arms, the figment of memory that he was holding on the bed, was not that. 

"You have to wake up, Sam. You have to look, you have to see these things, because of what you are."

"I never told you what I was,” he responded apologetically, still refusing to look at her.

"I never demanded it."

"You asked."

"If I had wanted to know, really wanted to know, I would have made you tell me."

"You think you could have.” He smiled a little, sadly. "I'd like to think that you could have..."

"Look at me, Sam."

"No."

"...now who's being the child?"

\----

Sam woke up next to Dean feeling more naked than he really was and tired for it. The dream stood out clear in his memory, startling after all the nights of closing his eyes only to wake up again, as if no time had passed in between. What he remembered was unsettling. He didn’t want to think about it, at least not now.

He looked over at his brother, and felt a little self-recrimination (something he was quite good at), because he had just slept with someone other than Jess, and it tasted a little bit like betrayal.

More so because he hadn't just slept with someone. He had slept with someone that he might be very much in love with. At the very least, someone he loved dearly.

He was half sitting up, and he let one hand drift absently over Dean's hair, petting him lightly, looking down at him with affection.

He had liked it. He had liked it and he liked the feel of Dean's nakedness against his own, and he liked that when Dean was pressing his body down on him, he didn't feel the weight of the guilt quite so much.

Dean stirred, making a cranky, groggy sound that trailed off as _naked_ and _together_ sank in. The first few times Sam had woken him up with cuddling, Dean felt the need to defend himself and his manhood because it was Sam, his little brother, and his ego told him _We should go do guy things, like throw footballs_. Dean was different as a lover. He was tolerant, at least (because cuddling could lead to play). His mind drifted between the peace of sleep and the feeling of Sam's fingers in his short hair. He thought, vaguely, about giving Sam another blowjob -- wringing some sounds out of him before breakfast -- and then he thought, instead, about buying popsicles and practicing.

_Yeah. That's an idea._

Because Sam's dick had the tendency to melt and all.

After a moment Sam settled back down, laying on the bed again and hoping he hadn't woken Dean, because he was hoping for just a moment more of snarkless affection.

He reached down, grasping Dean's forearm, and slowly placed it around his waist, hearing only snippets of Dean's thoughts and betting on his brother still being half asleep. He curled down into the embrace he'd made for himself, and concentrated on the warm, hard planes of his brother's body, something so different from the way Jess felt.

Dean's arm tightened in a kind of habitual, reflexive motion, pulling Sam a little closer. He was still at the edge of unconscious, not really aware of more than Sam's body and the heat between them, and half-dreaming, again. 

Sam felt a small sense of relief that there wasn't any quiet laughter, or a teasing voice to mock him for the motion. He shifted his head, until he felt his nose settle into the dip of Dean's collar bone.

People always said 'Don't you think they'd want you to be happy?', when speaking of the dead. Hell, even Dean'd asked him. Dean, who should have known better. The dead were not so holy, or angelic, or forgiving. It was a stupid question -- the dead did not have the ability to want anything at all. That was something purely human.

Sam's hands tightened against Dean's lower back, because this was as human as anything ever. The guilt would never go away -- it was no wound that would heal with time. But he was as stubborn as he was when he walked away from his family, now stubbornly walking back in.

Dean woke up with Sam's arms around him, his arms around Sam. He didn't mock him, just studied him up close, considered him, not really thinking anything, anything at all and then his gaze wandered, towards the ceiling, to the glimpses of _motel room_ he could see all around him, placing himself in his surroundings.

He yawned wide and lazy, and blinked the sleep away. His hand rubbed at Sam's side, a kind of caress that said _I'm with you_ , and he muttered, "Hey, sexy,” and his lips twitched, but it wasn't a joke, not really, because damn if Sam curled like that, comfortable and close, _wasn't_ something sexy, something Dean could stand a lot more of -- just quiet and still and mutual. He didn't ruin it. He closed his eyes and let himself appreciate.

Sam smiled a bit, the morning greeting so warm, and crude, and affectionate. It made Sam feel pretty good, actually. He leaned in to the motion of Dean's hand almost instinctually, letting out a long breath.

He could feel Dean's skin all along his, and it was pretty damn intimate. Also, bizarrely familiar and alien at the same time.

There was nothing about Sam that said 'woman'. Dean could make a lot of jokes about it, and, oh, they weren't over -- not in Sam's lifetime, but Sam had a sheer physicality to him, a size and a weight that said _man_ , and Dean still wasn't sure how that translated over to sexual in his mind. Women were curvy and soft and smooth almost everywhere and Sam was none of those things. Sam could bench a couple hundred pounds and there was very definitely hair. 

At least there was no hair on his back. Dean didn't think he could handle that, even on Sam. Arms? Check. Legs? Armpits? Fine. Little bit on the chest? It was cool. Back? Had to draw a line somewhere.

Somehow, despite the inherent _maleness_ of his little brother, Dean couldn't get enough of him. His body told him _I'd hit that. Like the fist of an angry god._ Dean wasn't given to much waxing philosophical on anything. At all. Still, the fact that he had this huge man in his bed, and seeing how much he liked it, that was kind of fucking mysterious. He'd had Sam in his bed for awhile, but not quite like this, not with the possibility of sex _at any time_ (or whenever Sam allowed it) very real and there on the table where they were both looking at it on the level.

'Sex whenever Sam allowed it'. Okay. Sam was a little like a woman.

"What's on the agenda for today?” Sam asked quietly, his hands tracing slow and lazy over Dean's sides, finding there the hills and valley's created by his ribs and the crease of his muscles. "Library and family interviews?"

This wasn't what Dean wanted to talk about. He was fantasizing about other things, but there was something evil, somewhere, and it needed killing.

That was Dean's job. 

He furrowed his brow and tried to work himself up to it.

"...right. We should...get dressed."

"One moment,” Sam said, and he shifted around enough to bring his arms up and place his hands on either side of Dean's head, holding it there as he leaned in and kissed him slow.

Dean loved that -- the way Sam liked to grab a hold of him and show him where to go. He hadn't gotten in bed with many people like that, who put him where they wanted him, but he thought it could make for some good times down the way, some stuff he hadn't tried before. With a stranger, it wouldn't have been comfortable, he couldn't really afford to let his guard down that way, but it couldn't be a coincidence that the two big relationships in his life were with people who didn't hesitate to assert themselves in whatever situation. He let Sam set the pace, didn't fight it.

Sam could get dubiously-consensual on him any time.

For Sam, however, it was weird, because he was used to being an equal in relationships, but when it came to Dean, he was just far too used to following in his footsteps. He couldn't think of being incredibly sexually assertive with the guy who had held his hand when he crossed the street when he was little. But at the same time as he wanted Dean to take him seriously, to _not_ treat him like a kid, some traitorous part of him really wanted Dean to treat him like a kid, lead him and look after him like he always did. And, of course, when Dean _did_ do anything like that, Sam got offended.

Sam could admit his psyche was a little messed up, but he figured he had some justifications.

Dean's tongue was slow and warm against his own, and the way they moved about each other's mouths -- like each one owned the other -- was pretty hot. And it was great in that way that it could be hot and slow burning, like an ember. Not a _'I need to climb on top of you right now'_ thing, but a _'Good morning, and I sexed you up last night and it was good'_ kind of way.

Sam drew back gradually, landing small, light kisses on Dean's lips as their heads drew back to rest on the pillows.

Dean forced his mind to return to things like 'getting dressed' and 'hunting evil'. At least, he tried.

"...too bad that's not a stall shower."

Dean would've been willing to bathe twice in twenty-four hours if Sam was there, too -- but as big as they were the jostling sounded less like 'a turn on' and more like 'a concussion'.

Sam just made a little half laugh noise and shook his head. 

" _I'll_ take the shower. You showered last night. Just use a wet facecloth.” He sat up in the bed, shifting around to get out, putting his feet on the floor.

Dean lay alone in the bed for a minute, watching Sam's back, the tattoos that moved with him. "...it's got nothin' to do with takin' a shower."

It was easy to crack perverted remarks to Sam, but Dean meant them well. It was easier to crack perverted remarks to Sam than show how damn _good_ he felt. They had sex, quantifiable _sex_. If Dean kept a notebook like John, that'd be in there, amid all the notes about things he'd killed and heard of -- _Kelpie: cannot be exposed to standing water. Today, had sex with Sam._ Waking up without that brutal apprehension, Dean felt things inside he would never, ever speak of.

Sam smiled a little, looking back over his shoulder, the sephira of Binah, marked on his skin, moved as his shoulder blade shifted.

"Yeah...I figured that.” He paused, then stood up, cracking his shoulders. "Next time we'll pick a place with a bigger shower,” he said in absent promise, feeling pretty good, all things told. He moved to the bathroom, leaving Dean with that promise.

Dean let out a breath as Sam's back left. He smiled to himself, a kind of warm, fuzzy, not-exactly-manly feeling in his stomach. At least half of it was because Sam's back was _hot_ , though, so he figured he could deal. (He couldn't stop the little flashes of bliss from breaking over his body. It was better than sleeping with hot twins. And, he got to keep it.)

He considering getting out of bed. He finally did, a couple of minutes later, and went into the bathroom to actually towel off, punctuated by a round of navel-gazing where he decided beer and moderate activity were starting to go to his stomach.

Sam showered quickly (which was against his nature -- given an hour, Sam could easily spent forty minutes in the shower), stepping out and toweling off.

Honestly, he was hoping they could get this job done quick and get back to Jersey. He really wanted to know the results of that whole soul/rock thing. 

Still, he was feeling pretty good, too. It was good because it felt utterly normal. There wasn't anything weird or awkward, nothing like a twinge that said 'this is wrong', though there probably _should_ have been. He could feel Dean, could feel how good he felt, and that made Sam feel contented.

Dean still knew, vaguely, that he was raised to be a person who should feel uncomfortable, or dirty, or guilty for giving his little brother head in some cheap hotel. But then, Sam didn't. 

Dean was the same person who held Sam's hand on that first day of public school and walked him to his classroom. He was the teenager who chauffeured Sam around even if he didn't understand some of the places Sam wanted to go. Like museums. And music recitals. He was the guy who brought Sam coffee while Sam was studying for his GED, years after school failed them, set it down on the desk, didn't say anything and walked off, and already knew, somewhere in his stomach, what that document could mean, but saw Sam sitting there with his head down over the book, looking exhausted, being way too anal retentive about something he was sure to pass easy, and brought him coffee, anyway. Dean was that guy. And, now, he was the guy who made Sam come in cheap hotel rooms. What could he do about it? He loved the bastard.

"...man.” He could do without the little gut he had, though.

"What?” Sam asked, looking over at Dean as he looped one towel around his waist and lifting another one to rub vigorously over and through his hair.

Dean shot him a little look, checked Sam's abs out -- Sam, who hadn't hammered houses and dug things until he was exhausted and actually worked out, jogged and shit (Dean had done pushups, and sit-ups, and...drank beer to cope with his constant lack of privacy). Dean made a face like _whatever_ and gave the huge mirror a dirty look. Who put mirrors in front of a sink, anyway? (Besides, you know, everyone.)

He tossed the wet washcloth down in the sink.

"Whatever.” It hadn't ruined his mood, or anything. That was already picking itself up.

Of course, Dean's definition of flab was something like 'a very small layer of what _could_ be fat or could just as easily be the texture of skin over the many pounds of hard muscle'. It wasn't exactly objective. 

Sam shook his head at Dean's nonsensical reply, and moved past him, into the room to grab his clothes. (And yeah, okay, maybe he'd noticed Dean checking him out a little).

Dean left the mirror after a couple more seconds of silent contemplation that registered as only a vague disquiet in Sam's mind. Dean wandered over to his bag and got some clothes out, tugged them on over his hips, his head, cinched his belt up.

"Weapon check. And then we get on the move.” It wasn't an order. Just a reminder.

"Yeah,” Sam said, pulling his shirt over his head, running his hands through his wet hair. He'd end up letting it dry uncombed and shaggy, as always.

Once they were dressed they went through the weapons (the Mazda had a pretty inferior trunk for them in comparison to the Impala) and checked the bullets. Sam put a couple of knives on his person. Not that the library was dangerous, but it was always good to have a couple on you when you started the day.

When they'd gone through all their favorite guns and tools, the ones that saw use the most often, Dean dropped Sam off at the library, stopped by the gas station for a few things, and drove alone to the deceased girl's former home. Some things were easier on his own -- like lying to strangers without Sam startling him with a moment's impulsive honesty.

The house was a gray Colonial with a tire swing hung from the branch of an old oak tree out front. Dean knocked on the door, a notebook tucked under his arm, waited about a minute before a young man came to open it. He was no more than a few years older than Dean, but looked rough around the edges.

Dean extended his hand in an amiable way. 

"Hey, I'm Gary Hager."

The man met the handshake, his blue eyes fixed on Dean, trying to discern who exactly he was, and if he was trying to sell something. 

"Richard Lambert. Can I help you?"

Dean offered a smile, although he knew his smiles didn't always put people at ease, to he cast his hook, too. 

"I'm a freelance journalist up in Boston. I've been down here working on a story for National Geographic Traveler. Actually, I was doing some research for the article, and I came across a local story. The story about your daughter."

Hurt winced across Richard's eyes. He found himself at a loss for words, the subject the last thing he expected to come up suddenly from a stranger. 

"…my daughter died three years ago."

"I'm sorry. For your loss,” Dean offered sympathetically. "But I understand they never found what did it?"

"You're looking for a story?"

"If there's a story to tell."

"…I don't know.” Richard had to admit it that any publicity was, at this point, good publicity. The scare that stirred up newspapers across the region, the idea of a big cat loose in Rhode Island, had generated interest that eventually faded to nothing. The idea of a freelance reporter willing to pitch the story around allowed him hope for closure he hadn't expected, this long after.

"It must be hard, never knowing what happened.” Dean sensed the hook sink and reeled it in, his voice gentle and commiserating. 

"…alright. Come in. I'm not sure what you're looking for, but…" Richard held the door open. 

"I appreciate it." Dean nodded, as if to reassure him he was doing the right thing. 

Two hours, a couple of beers, a crying father, and five pages of notes later, Dean knew that Richard Lambert didn't have the droids he was looking for. Richard's daughter had been walking home from softball practice, not even two miles, a walk she made a few times a week. Eye witnesses at the time gave conflicting reports, and no one saw the actual attack. Dean already knew about the injuries in detail, but he had to go through them because there was no excuse for what he knew that could make it sound legal. Richard was out of a job, his wife was holding the family together with her work at the bank, and they thought they were ready to try for another child but they didn’t want to have one in Quidnessett, not after what had happened. Dean had lied to too many families too many times to feel remorse about putting the man through the emotional wringer. The results won and lives saved were more valuable than a few crushed spirits. Dean still managed to sleep at night.

He thanked Richard for his time, got his phone number and promised him he'd be in touch. He drove back to the library, thumbing Richard's number to deletion with one hand on the wheel, hoping Sam scored more intel than he had. 

Sam was sitting outside the library, hands tucked into the front pockets of his hoodie, leaned back against one of the railings trailing up the buildings stairs. He pushed himself forward when he spotted the Mazda, half-jogging down the stairs to slip into the passenger's seat.

"So,” he said, leaning back against the back. "Found some interesting stuff -- enough to suggest that this isn't just a crazy person. First attack occurred a little over sixty years ago. So, theoretically, we could have a seventy or eighty year old sicko on our hands, but I doubt it.” He pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket, glancing over the information he'd written down, but not really needing to. His memory was pretty good. "Couple of disturbed corpses, both on the night of their burial, same sort of dissection we've seen. As for living victims, there are a bunch of incidents of missing, maimed, or dead children, both here and in other areas around here -- New Hampshire, New York -- but what's most interesting is that while the attacks were happening in those places, Quidnessett was quiet."

"That's a little better than the fat lot of nothing I dug up.” Comforting sobbing strangers wasn't high on Dean's list of entertainments. "But this is good. It's a thing, a monster, sounds corporeal, too."

Sam put his knees up on the dash.

"So, thoughts? Are we on graveyard stake-out duty?"

"...sounds about right. Can check out the local obits and find ourselves a fresh one."

"Yum.” Sam made a face. 

Still, didn't change the fact that they spent the next hour at a coffee shop, sipping away at the strongest stuff the place had, and browsing the papers.

Dean had the superhuman ability to consume black espresso with the chocolate covered espresso beans they sold at the counter blended in. He could say, 'Hey, throw these in the blender with that for me,' with a face that betrayed no sign of emotion and come back twenty-six minutes later and say, 'Hit me with that again.' It was the only time he took his coffee with any kind of flavoring.

By the time they had figured out exactly when someone was being put in the ground at Quidnessett Memorial Cemetery, Dean's foot was tapping nervously between the leg of his chair and the wall.

Dean treated coffee like alcohol, and it amused Sam to watch his brother take it like shots. The younger Winchester just smirked and sipped his plain black coffee and let Dean suffer.

Once they got to the cemetery there was little else to do but wait. They sat on the ground, backs against a tree trunk, with a pretty good view of the grounds, watching the last mourners paying their respects to the dead. The sun was beginning to sink.

Dean checked out the two guns and the knife he was carrying, even though he'd just gone over them that morning. He had to have something to do with his hands. 

"You know what we need? I mean, besides a new tape deck in the car -- we need some night vision binoculars. I bet I could rig those up."

Sam just rolled his eyes at his brother's weird version of geekery. 

"You could put out a line of Winchester brand hunting equipment at this point, Dean.” He leaned his head back against the bark of the tree, their shoulders touching.

Sam never seemed very impressed with Dean's ingenuity, but Dean didn't let that stop him. Dean had never thought about it that way before, and he stopped to. 

"For all...ten people that'd buy it."

"Hey. It's something.” Sam sighed and shifted down against the cemetery loam. He stretched a leg out, their calves pressed together, and the motion was so comfortable that Sam honestly didn't even notice it.

Dean noticed the sudden warmth, the pressure, and it was nice. He closed his eyes, too buzzed to really relax. It'd be a long time before he went to sleep, though -- and that was the point. The initial stress on his system and that mild paranoia were an acceptable consequence for stimulation.

He finished checking the shotgun out and concealed it under his jacket, again. 

"So whatta you think it'll be?” He felt compelled to talk. It was difficult not to talk. It was possible he had erred on the side of too much coffee. He was starting to accept that, but, man, he felt amazing. Kinda euphoric. It wasn't the first time.

"Something that eats the dead and the living? Dunno.” Sam noticed the fact that his brother was a little buzzed. "It's a weird MO. I didn't find any connections between the victims, either. It moves around too -- it's gotta be connected to some person or thing if it's spiritual, or have a migration pattern if it's corporeal."

Dean tried to go through creatures he knew, but his thoughts were a little elusive. 

"...I'm not gonna sleep for three days. It's not happenin'.” He reached up to rub at his temples. "Tell you what, reminds me of some old horror films I've seen, though.” 

"Oh?” Sam queried, half fiddling with one of his knives, pulled out from a sleeve.

Dean scanned the cemetery in the dimming light. Aside from whatever supernatural nasty might show up, they had to keep their eyes open for security guards. 

"Yeah. Y'know, when they're not zombies...ghouls. _The_ Ghoul; that's a movie."

Sam looked up at the dim light of the cemetery, the shadows cast by the gravestones. 

"As loathe as I am to give Hollywood credit for anything, ever...It's a possibility. They don’t usually show up in America, but ghouls do tend to stay in areas where the dead are, and they aren't limited to attacks on the dead. They can even lure travelers or people to them, kind of like a siren."

"Really?” Dean asked, at Sam, next to him, shifting against his shoulder. "First I've head of it.” It was more believable than vampires. Most things were. "Any idea how to kill it?"

"I haven't encountered one, or a hunter who came up against one -- just have the stories to go on. I've heard they can be pacified -- the male by trimming its hair, and the female by suckling at her breast. But then again, we don't really wanna pacify.” He tucked the knife back into his shirt sleeve. "I've heard them compared to or even outright called a type of djinn, a genie. We could look up ways of killing them."

"Guess we'll have to hope somethin' sticks between rock salt, bullets, an' silver, tonight.” As far as the supernatural went, those were the big three -- the things Dean didn't leave home without. The fourth was fire, but Dean had a knack for whipping that up anywhere.

Once the sun sank bellow the horizon, the Winchester brothers were up and roaming the grounds, never more than fifteen or twenty feet apart -- far enough to get a different view of the cemetery, but close enough that if anything came up, they'd be within safe distance to help one another.

Sam was holding his shotgun down, pointed safely at the ground, but cocked and waiting as he walked quietly through the gravestones. His eyes narrowed when he saw some kind of movement, and made a quick, summoning motion to his brother.

Dean cocked his pistol and caught up with Sam, moving low to the ground and quiet. Sam nodded the direction and they crept forward, stalking silently amidst the tombstones. Dean had begun fanning off again to cover more ground when it heard it -- a whispery, scratching noise and faint, rhythmic thumps. He checked with Sam, confirmed with a look that Sam heard it, too. They crept towards the sound through the cool grass.

Where Mr. Isaac Niven had been freshly interred underneath the afternoon sun, there was a growing hole and, within it, a hunched human figure, frantically digging with spider-like jerks.

Sam raised himself slowly, bringing his gun to his shoulder and aiming. Normally, in their line of work, it was shoot first and ask questions later, but until they could identify the figure as definitely inhuman, they couldn't take the chance.

Murdering someone set you up pretty good for being hounded for the rest of your life.

"Hey!” he called.

The figure shoved to its feet, and it was a woman -- her dark hair black in the pale light. She said nothing. For a minute she stood, swaying, eyes fixed on Sam, delicate features relief-lit in the shadows, and then she lunged-- her face met the butt of Sam's shotgun.

Staggering back, she clutched her head, her mouth opened too wide; she screamed her anger, a harsh, gravelly roar. Her fingers were too long, claw-sharp; she swiped.

Dean fired with the shotgun, twice. He could swear the first hit, that he saw the flare of cloth parting and a black splatter, heard the roar twist into a pained shriek, but before the second shell impacted, she was gone, on her hands and feet, bounding in skitterish motions over the ground and too fast to follow.

Sam dropped his shotgun to his left hand, grabbing the silver-plated knife in his sleeve with his right. He pulled it back and released, all one smooth motion, the knife flying into the darkness at the pale spectre.

The knife struck, sunk, but the creature in the guise of woman didn't check, disappearing into the darkness.

Dean lowered his gun. 

"Shit."

"Damn it,” Sam echoed, lowering his hand. He was arguably better with knives than he was with guns -- he had sort of expected that to take her down. "Great. Now what?” He looked over to Dean.

Dean's grimaced, obviously disappointed. 

"We know what she looks like.” He checked his shoulder, his expression sinking. Following the woman in the dark would be a tall order. "Better get out of here before someone calls the cops."

"Good plan.” Sam thought he could already hear the sirens, but it could just have been his head playing with him. He tucked his shotgun under one arm, moving swiftly with his brother through the darkened field.

He was thankful it was a little bit past the half moon -- without the silvery light, they would have been tripping over graves.

\----

Back at the motel, Dean let himself fume and pace the floor. Half of it was aggravation at a hunt gone sour, and the other half was caffeine jitters.

"I swear I hit her. I saw _you_ hit her.” He leaned his palm against the wall, tapping his fingers.

"So,” Sam was changing out of the shirt that had grave dirt on it. "We now know that neither silver nor rock salt stops her."

"She didn't flicker like a spirit. You think she's...undead?” Dean frowned. 

"Definitely something corporeal.” Sam was pretty sure his knife had sunk into something. "Could be. I wanna look into the whole djinn avenue."

Dean shifted back away from the wall, staring at the ridges patterning the mustard-brown wallpaper. 

"...I really gotta piss."

He came out of the bathroom a couple minutes later.

Sam was sitting at the table, flicking through some of the books they had with them. They still had the Key of Solomon, and a couple others from Bobby's, as well as a few he'd picked up at Ruth's. Dad's journal was thrown in amongst all the open tomes.

Dean stopped in the entry hall, between the bathroom and the beds. There was Sam, shaggy head bent over pages of text, clean shirt and dirt-smudged jeans. Here was Dean, feeling the burn of his overindulgence but not about to comment on it, ready to laze around until Sam made him do something or had a breakthrough. It was normal, Sam in his element, Dean in his. Totally normal, except there was the bed Dean gave Sam oral sex in. 

Dean crossed the patterned carpet, slid an arm around Sam from behind, pressed his face against Sam's mop of hair. It wasn't a hug. A hug said, _'I love you.'_ The embrace was more possessive; it said _'Study while you can.'_ He nipped at Sam's earlobe before his arm withdrew.

The motion still surprised Sam, and he looked up from his books, glancing back at his brother.

"Dean...?” he asked, curiously, before the nip and he realized exactly why Dean was there. Sam smiled a bit. "Again? Already?” He didn't sound adverse to the idea -- just a little surprised. For someone who hadn't had sex in almost two years, two nights in a row was kind of a big deal.

Dean blanked and blinked, shrugged his shoulders, tapped his foot a couple of times with a surplus of energy, eyes wandering, edging back to Sam thoughtfully. 

"...I dunno. I could...watch you read.” Because sleep was right out. 

He glanced at the television. Okay, he could watch that, too. It was kind of lackluster compared to his burly little brother and infinitely inferior audio-wise, but it had stories, and pictures, and...things.

Sam lifted a hand to his brother's wrist, holding his arm there such that Dean wouldn't withdraw. 

"No.” Sam smiled a little, shaking his head. "I didn't mean it like that, I was just surprised...I didn't expect...” He was still surprised by how much Dean wanted him. It was flattering, and it caught Sam in the center of his gut, how much his big brother was focused so completely on him. After a second, he tipped his head to the side, away from Dean's -- leaving the expanse of his cheek, ear, and side of his neck open to his brother.

Dean's gut flinched tight. He lowered his head slowly, exhaling a long breath, and he took what Sam was offering, closed on that wide, tan expanse of exposed neck, teeth grazing Sam's skin.

Dean couldn't imagine a better pastime than making this one person happy, luring Sam out of the world in his head until he anchored in the present, let go of all his little hang-ups. Dean knew what a hard time Sam had just relaxing. 

Sam swallowed and shut his eyes, his fingers tightened against Dean's wrist as he felt his brother's lips, his brother's teeth, against his skin.

The inherent weirdness of feeling his sibling so close, so sensually intimate, never quite went away. It never just vanished -- it just moved lower on the list of priorities. He couldn't help but occasionally think of their father and what he'd say, and it was ridiculous that he could argue and fight with his dad over everything and worry only about this. But perhaps it was because this time he knew that he really was in the wrong -- at least as far as the laws of nature were concerned.

Not that that ever stopped him. His brother was finally his again, after ten years of wondering where the bond they had as children went. He was finally his brother's again, after four years away, rejecting Dean and the life the he loved. Most of all, he was near someone -- someone warm, someone who wanted him, all of him, even the nastier bits. The only person he could be this close to, after losing her.

"Dean,” he murmured, and only that one word could sum all that up.

Dean heard his name and knew he could stop himself. Dean had no excuse like, _'I couldn't stop myself.'_ He let himself, but all the impulses of attraction were something he remained totally capable of locking up and keeping down.

Oh, then Sam would be mad at him, though. He hated when Dean repressed himself. That was the little twist that kept him in the game, even if some moments were more intense than comfortable. Dean had his soft spot, his real weak spot where denying anything to Sam was concerned.

So, Dean's mouth was all over his baby brother, and he could stop himself, but he didn't, because he wanted Sam to loosen up, because he liked to hear Sam say his name with everything it meant right now beneath it. Dean wanted close, wanted so close with somebody that it was like their skin melting together -- just by himself he felt too empty, incomplete and searching. There was no person closer to start with than Sam, flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood. What Sam felt as weird Dean felt as reprieve, respite from that gaping insecurity. Sam gave Dean purpose like nothing else.

Dean's lips were full and taut as they pressed to Sam's skin, and the younger of the two of them opened his mouth a little, leaning his head back. Dean kissed with more heated intensity than anyone Sam'd ever kissed before. When Dean kissed him, Sam could honestly say that he felt like the only thing that existed to Dean, and it was a euphoric feeling. Dean, the big brother he'd always chased after when he was small, the big brother he felt he could never match up to, loved him. Was in love with him. Wanted him. Sexually, physically, emotionally, mentally. God, it was an amazing feeling.

Like the center of the universe was between Sam's skin and Dean's teeth.

He removed his brother's arm, shifting forward so as not to bump Dean's head, then stood and turned around, one hand seizing the side of Dean's jaw, and the other hand the opposite side of his neck. Sam pressed his lips to Dean's, hard and open.

Dean found himself in Sam's grasp for the second time that day, and he kissed him back like he meant it, and he meant it, but he pulled back, after a minute, looked at Sam curiously, with Sam's hands controlling his space. It was still sexy, but he was starting to notice it was _all the time_. 

"...y'know, sometime, when we've got our crap worked out, we're gonna have to play some tie-me-up games."

Sam paused there and stared at Dean.

"...you know. The minute I'm thinking I'm somewhere comfortable with you, you find some new, perverse way to undo it.” Sam shifted his arms, moving them until they were loosely around his brother's neck, and they were kissing again, because Dean was way more attractive when he _shut the hell up_.

He thought better of it after a moment though, and added: "Don't you think you could say something, I dunno, less crass? When we're getting involved like this, I mean."

"Okay,” Dean said, but he was clearly picking his brain. He wet his lips. "I love you,” he said simply. He looked at Sam, let that settle in with him, added, frankly: "I want to make love to you.” Then, there was the sinker. "You're always grabbin' my head like I don't know how to kiss you. _Dude_. It's hard to work like that."

Sam stared down at his brother, kind of shell shocked, because he hadn't been expecting that response. Normally he would have had some witty retort or comeback to Dean's last comment, but the previous two had kind of stunned him.

"Uh. I’m sorry?” was all he managed.

Dean looked at him challenging, like daring Sam to call him out on it -- about sometimes not wanting his head grabbed, or anything else. Queasiness rolled through his stomach. Everything was easier with sarcasm, once-removed, but facing Sam's startled stare sheared through all the bullshit so hard and fast Dean had to wait for Sam's reaction to breathe.

Sam moved his arms slowly, almost cautiously, away from Dean, lowering them slowly to his sides.

"Well, I didn't _mean_ to--...” Sam shrugged a little, having sort of assumed that Dean liked being kissed by him. He hadn't really realized he was doing something wrong. It was funny how when Dean had said that, with all those loaded statements before hand, Dean's normal teasing made Sam feel guilty, instead of angry.

Dean let out the rest of one breath and let his lungs fill with the next. 

"Sam, _no--_ I mean, I _like--_ "

He worked his mouth two times against the air and shut it resentfully, reading the guilt on Sam's face and at odds what to do about it.

Well, this was grand.

A second ago it had seemed like they were gearing up for an evening similar to the previous one, which was a pretty good deal considering their very unsuccessful hunt. Now they were standing there, awkwardly, just sort of looking at one another. Two grown men, standing in a room, standing less than a few inches apart, unable to even finish a sentence.

Sam looked curious when Dean had spoken, but then he'd cut himself off, and Sam didn't even know how to respond. How did things between them always end up getting so awkward?

Oh yeah. They were brothers.

"...I'll just, remember not to do that, in future.” He shrugged a bit, taking a step back so that he wasn't so uncomfortably in Dean's space.

 _No,_ Dean thought immediately. _\--not it._

Dean looked at him searchingly, and he felt that Sam had gotten something essentially _wrong_ , but he wasn't articulate enough to verbalize it. He floundered, thwarted, and thought, defeated, _Can't you read my mind?_

Sam looked faintly surprised.

"I can hear it...I don’t try to read your mind _purposefully_.” That would be a little creepy.

Dean tried to wrap his head around it -- enough to momentarily distract him. He was so used to the idea of Sam in his head, Sam not getting him was uncanny.

"What's the difference?"

"You think things consciously, but there's also...you know. Other stuff, that you're thinking about, underneath it.” Sam shrugged a bit. "Or, at least, I think that's how it works. And...besides, the last few days, I've really been working on trying to keep myself out of your head, so I'm not hearing as much anymore.” He paused, frowning a little. "Why? What is it that you can't say to me?"

Dean registered the good thing that was, having his head to himself again, being able to think whatever behind Sam's back without the threat of repercussion. It was what a part of him wanted, sure, but to another part of him it sounded like _alone_.

He tried to dredge up the thoughts he'd buried away, but nothing came out of them. He felt pretty sullen about the whole thing, pointed out obviously, "If I could say it, you wouldn't need to read my mind."

Sam let out a puff of air. Why did his brother have to be so stubborn?

"What? So you _want_ me to read your mind now?” He looked a little disgruntled. He'd just started getting this stuff under control! Now Dean wanted him to unleash it again? Sam wasn't even entirely sure _how_. Still, he crossed his arms over his chest and shut his eyes (because, for some reason, he thought something like that would help). He tried to consciously read Dean's mind, which felt incredibly voyeuristic and invasive.

On the surface, there was nothing but the vibrant impression of _too stubborn to back down_ , and Dean was. From the minute Sam closed his eyes, Dean took it as a dare, and Dean Winchester had saw dares through. He dug his boots into the carpet and took all the pent up insult of watching that woman run away on all fours and stood his ground.

That might have been fine, except Sam really could read his mind. The next layer was _torn_ , wanting Sam to get in and wanting Sam to give up and wanting both with an equality that didn't let him choose. Once Sam hit that second layer, Dean's mind shucked away like onion skin. _Annoyed_ said Sam always took things too seriously. _Aroused_ didn't care about the whole stupid fight. And there was what Dean was holding back: one part of Dean gravely didn't mind Sam controlling his body and vowed earnestly that Sam _could_ tie him up, and another took Sam's impulse to take charge of the situation as a sign that Sam didn't really want him in his personal space, needed to know what he was doing like Dean would mess it up, or hurt him. Beyond that there were layered on without an end in sight, the miles beneath the surface that made up Dean. ( _Destructive_ , said another layer, still itching for action.)

Sam winced a little, going so deep into Dean he felt like he'd be unable to crawl back out again. He honestly wished he didn't have any of this shit to deal with, but there it was -- he couldn't stop being a psychic, as it turned out. He just had to deal.

He finally opened his eyes, and the first thing he felt was a swell of self-pride, because he'd _done_ it. He'd read a mind when he intended to, when he'd asked to, and not without his own permission, like usual. Of course, after that, he had to deal with the impossible layers of his brother, and he once again wished that Dean could do _anything_ simply.

"...Then kiss me how you want to.” He said, with a slow shrug. "I...I mean I really don't mind you making the first move. You can do that, you know. It's just that half the time it's like you think you're forcing me, but if I make the first move, then you think I don't trust you...I'm here, Dean. I'm in this. Really.” He shrugged again, helplessly and letting his arms flap against his sides, looking a little dumb just standing there. "I mean it."

Dean's head jerked back. Maybe he provoked Sam to read his mind, but hearing his own thoughts reflected back when he couldn't say them or really think them threw him off.... He resented it; he liked it; it made everything easier. Maybe he thought he'd feel it if Sam reached deeper than he usually did, but he didn't, he hadn't. He experienced a moment of surrealism, a sense of the foreign, like when Sam put thoughts in his head. His expression said _'Really?'_ , like _'Did you really just do that?'_ \-- but he was more impressed than spooked, and pleased with what he heard.

One step, and he closed the distance between himself and Sam. He'd laid it on a lot of people, but after months of waiting on Sam's cues, it was different, it meant something like sex rarely did. He tipped his head up, like he was used to, and damn Sam was tall, caught Sam's lips in his and thought _no hands_ and let him ease into it, because they'd just been bickering. He stood on the balls of his feet, let his mouth do all the negotiating. And he wanted, deeply desired to kiss other things, to put his mouth on other parts of Sam's body, to put his mouth on Sam's knee and wherever like Sam hadn't let him, months ago, but for now he settled for 'no hands', because it proved something, drove it home for him.

Sam ended up leaning down a little, even if he had just told Dean to put the moves on him, because, man, Dean was short. He felt the press and pull of their lips together, but he didn't initiate anything. He let Dean lead the kiss, and it was weirdly comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time.

On the one hand, he was used to Dean leading everything. Dean was his big brother and the guy who'd raised him. He was just _used_ to Dean being in charge. On the other hand, when it came to kissing people, his only experience had been with girls. And girls tended to like guys to take control. It was a weird war in him with the brother part of himself and the lover part of himself, but the conflict was kind of exciting, kind of interesting, and his analytical mind marveled over the psychology of it while his body indulged in the physiology of it.

Dean rocked on his toes, keeping his balance, his own hands at his sides, enjoying the novelty of the position, moving with the kiss. He graduated to gliding a hand over Sam's chest, then a hand at the back of Sam's neck and a hand on Sam's waist, their bodies pushing together and Dean kissing Sam exactly however he felt like it.

Everything inherently wrong with Sam digging that deep in his head diminished with Sam being able to just _get_ him, to understand without all the verbal blundering Dean equated with being in a relationship. With Sam inside his boundaries as rewarding as right now, he forgot for a minute why he'd been so adamant on getting him out of them, the idea had its own kind of appeal, all wrapped up in _yours_.

Sam felt himself being drawn in a little closer, and he lifted his arms, figuring that was okay now, and lightly rested his hands against his brother's biceps. He leaned down a little more, turning his head to the side to allow their kiss to deepen, lips parting and tongues touching. He could still hear the echoes of his brother's thoughts, and he tried to withdraw, but he found that to be a lot more difficult than going in, so he settled into it for now.

He'd take some time later to practice, like he'd been doing, like Ruth'd said to.

Dean's mind was a kind of mind blowing place, especially at moments like this.

There was no part of Dean less than totally engaged with Sam and the feedback off Sam's body. Dean made love like drowning. Even stray, fleeting thoughts were some memory of Sam in the patchwork of memories stretching back almost as far as his earliest recollections. ( _Sam touched him and he remembered Sam grabbing his sleeve, asking for a toy Dad had said 'no' to, and Dean snuck it in behind John's back and watched Sam light up victoriously, knowing Sam knew he'd go find it from the minute he asked._ )

When they'd stripped off their clothes and climbed on the bed , Dean soothed him to a lull, kissing him slow over his face and running a hand through his messy hair and then he slunk down, not going for the denouement but building an encyclopedic knowledge of Sam's body with his mouth and his hands, finding every mole and thin white scar on his skin, henna like footnotes, caffeine in his veins honing his attention while time slowed to a standstill, or maybe hours passed.

Sam had always expected sex with Dean to be hard and fast -- he was surprised to find that that was consistently not the case. Not that Dean was a slow-music-and-candles kinda guy(that would have just been weird), but Dean always seemed to want to draw him as deep into this as possible, and it was pretty hard not to--…Difficult. Pretty _difficult_ not to.

Sam had no idea what time of night it was when they finished -- he just knew he was exhausted, and Dean was all over him, their bodies pressed flush and warm together. He rolled them over, kissing the crook of his brother's neck heatedly, no more energy left to get hard again, but still pretty internally aroused and happy to just feel his new lover, the way their stomachs, tense with muscle, vulnerable and naked, sticky with sweat and ejaculate, pressed together. The way their arms could twist just so. The way Dean's lower lip slid between his -- and of course, then they were kissing again, deep and slow and intense, because nothing between the two Winchester's was ever light and simple.

Dean kissed Sam because Sam liked to be kissed. He'd had his years of wall-slamming, pulse-pounding sex, sweeping books off tables and fumbling his belt and fly open one-handed -- sex in six minutes six times in a night. There was a hell of a lot of fun to be had there, and Dean bet Sam had it in him -- more crassly, if Sam didn't, Dean bet he could put it in him -- but in Dean's experience, that kind of sex didn't stick. He wanted Sam coming back and looking forward to it, not Sam grumbling 'Not tonight' and rolling over because it had to be _fast_ and _now_.

He parted with his lips wet and kiss-swollen, pulled close to Sam, breathing against his cheek. 

"Gonna warn you,” he murmured, low. "I don't get bored of this."

"Yeah?” Sam murmured in return, and found himself smiling. "Good.” He kissed him again, then Dean's jaw, his lips wet, and he ran his tongue over the line created just under Dean's jawbone.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt sexual -- it was different than wanting to have sex. Wanting to have sex was a pretty regular human thing, guy or girl. It was just a hormonal impulse that came on from time to time, and it was as hollow and meaningless as being hungry or thirsty, only less pressing. Feeling _sexual_ was feeling like sex, feeling sensual, wanting to touch and be touched and feeling good about yourself, warm and appreciated and like you were wanted, and that you wanted in return.

It made him pretty happy.

"Didn't...I mean, I didn't expect this. All this."

"I'm a complicated guy.” Dean flashed a smile, just enough smug not to slip his cool, arm crooked over his brother's body. Even saying it that way, his stomach turned over. He had pushed his limits for emotionally daring teasing Sam earlier, but for once in his life he was in a safe place. There was no way to even start with a girl, slim and fragile in his arms and everything he knew was out there out there. It'd taken months, but he'd stopped testing the water and jumped in the pool -- if he was still getting used to the temperature.

"Yeah,” Sam said slowly, looking down at Dean with some wondering expression. "I'm getting that."

He shifted slowly, laying down next to his brother. He could feel the top of his thigh pressed to the side of Dean's, and he rested his cheek against his brother's shoulder, draping an arm lazily over his waist.

Dean tucked himself up against Sam's larger body, sweat slick skin sliding close; adjusted until he was comfortable.

"...and, I'm easy to have a conversation with."

"Dude, you're the most difficult person to have a conversation with.” Sam snorted a little.

"I knew it was one or the other." Dean's fingers stroked Sam's side, trailing down to rest on his hip.

Sam felt his brother's hand resting intimately on the side of his hip and shifted his leg a little, laying it over Dean's. 

Dean closed his eyes and lapsed into silence, _stupid emotional_ seeping off of him and him not trying to hide it, letting Sam soak it up and do what he wanted with it. It took too much out of him to force everything down. The image of Sam passed out on the desk still hurt fresh. He was pretty sure he'd spill anything Sam asked him, right here and now, with the knowledge of Sam's body burned indelibly into his mind and feeling filled up, whole and relaxed.

Sam was vaguely aware of Dean's scare, back then. He'd been groggy with sleep at the time, but later on he'd realized what Dean'd thought. He hadn't thwapped his brother upside the head for it just because Dean seemed so hurt and scared over it, but he still deserved it. Like Sam would _ever_ try anything like that. At some point, when Dean was a little less raw, Sam would try and get that through to him. It was a needless fear.

Sam wasn't sleepy at first, so for a long time they just lay there, the younger of the two occasionally pressing a slow kiss to whatever skin was nearest him, until he eventually faded out, and the sound of his breathing softened.

Dean stayed awake a little longer; buzzed, but tired, his eyes roaming the wall. Just feeling so secure started to gnaw at him, like there was something he was overlooking -- a lot of things, maybe, but he didn't want to think about them. He had no experience with his life working out so well.

Three days passed. They found more suggestions on how to kill a ghoul than a djinn, with decapitation and burning at the top of the list, and more folklorish ideas -- those saying a man could kill a ghoul in one blow, but the second would reanimate it. They found no ghoul while scouting the town for her, but nothing terrible happened, either. On the second day, Dean let himself touch Sam without preface, groped the Astroglide out of his bag, walked up behind him while he was brushing his teeth, gave him one hell of a hand job, and cleaned the bathroom mirror off while Sam worked research.

On the third day Sam went to his knees when they came in the door, and held Dean's hips against a wall. He was unsure of giving a blow job, never having done so before, and approached it a little more cautiously than Dean did. It ended up being a cross between a blow job and a hand job, but Sam did his best to please his brother, finding himself quite wrapped up in doing so these days. Dean had no complaints. They kept at it for the next few hours.

The fourth morning found them at an old diner, midway through renovations, parts of the roof covered in blue tarp. Sam scooted down on the opposite side of the booth from Dean, his knees up against the table as he read a book in his lap.

Dean was in high spirits, like he always was when he managed to have more than two orgasms in a night. Getting laid regularly showed in his face. His eyes were brighter and his whole attitude was better.

"Feels like we've turned this suburb upside down. It hasn't come back to the graveyard.... Obviously, we've been lookin' in the wrong places for this thing.” He tapped his fork against the table. "I dunno, Sam, maybe it skipped town.” There was a point where being everywhere started to look suspicious to people, even where the Winchesters weren't the center of trouble, and Dean didn't say it, but he had the nagging fear that if it was in town and holed up it'd start looking for younger, more lively meat soon enough.

He glanced over at the women behind the counter, watching the older, blue-haired one take somebody else's order while a moderately good looking Asian woman poured coffee for people who weren't them. The third had been juggling eggs and toast and bacon at the griddle since they came in the door, brown hair up in a loose ponytail. Dean wasn't too monogamous to stop checking out her ass. He looked down at his menu again and reconfirmed that he wanted one of those greasy t-bone steaks, a hash brown, two eggs, toast, and now he wanted bacon, too, on top of the steak, because he was hungrier than when he came in and the place stunk of food.

Sam had settled for coffee and toast, enjoying the less fancy stuff. For someone who stood about six foot five with some incredible muscle mass, he tended to eat pretty small.

"Could have. It's been known to do so before, and if it's sentient, that would have been the best thing for it to do, now that it knows people are hunting it.” He sipped his coffee, eyes still locked on the book (Sam had that creepy ability to read and have a conversation at the same time and not miss anything in either). "But if it has, what do we do? We couldn't pick up a trail from the cemetery."

"I dunno. I'd feel shitty lettin' this one go, with its MO.” He frowned down at the coffee in front of him. "Man, somebody could take our order."

He looked back at the waitress's ass, waiting for her to shuffle the last meal out onto a plate so he could interrupt her.

And then, he kicked Sam under the table.

"Ow!” Sam looked up from his book, finally. "What was that for?"

Dean's eyes remained fixed on the waitress. He glanced Sam's way, jerked his head towards her and looked down at his coffee.

Sam glanced over at the woman, raising an eyebrow.

"Dude, don't point out chicks you think are hot to me,” he said. "That's not--...” Wait. She looked familiar. Sam's eyes narrowed.

He lifted a hand, tapping the side of his head, indicating that Dean should try to talk to him mentally, rather than aloud.

Dean stared at him. _...right. Reflex._ He tugged his collar up around his neck a little. _Whatta we do?_

After a moment of silence, Dean pressed his forehead against his palm.

Naturally, Sam couldn't answer.

The waitress passed off the full plates to her coworkers and turned to scan the diner. Her eyes lit on Sam and Dean, behind her, and she sauntered over, a friendly smile gracing her delicate face. "Have you boys been served?” 

Dean's eyes dodged sideways at her; he wet his lips. 

"No, ma'am."

She pulled her receipt book out of her apron and plucked out her pen. 

"And what would you like...?” She hesitated, brow knitting, as she looked at Sam.

"Just some toast, and a side of the mixed fruit,” and Sam went for a believable smile. When she turned to take Dean's order, Sam's eyes trailed over her body swiftly, searching, searching...

He couldn't see the knife wound, but it could be under her clothes. He could see the pitter-patter scar marks of a shotgun wound on her upper arm, though. The name-tag on her breast read ‘Emily P.’.

"I'll have the t-bone, and two eggs, sunny-side up, some toast, a hash brown...and a side of bacon.” Dean gave her that open mouthed smile he gave all the hot women, that smile that made him look like a school kid, harmless, disarming. "Got all that, sweetheart?"

The waitress's pen scribbled on for a second before she looked up at Dean. She might have been glancing shyly, or maybe it was nerves. 

"And a side of bacon?"

"And a side of bacon."

She checked the receipt. "I think I got it. I'll go put this in for you."

She walked away stiffly, stalking fast on high heels straight into the back of the diner.

Sam stared at her and watched her go, and for a long moment silence reigned at the table.

Then he turned to give his brother an utterly confused expression.

"...Did a ghoul just take our order?"

Dean met him look for look. 

_She's got a head start._

He scanned the diner; spotted an old juke box; made a plan.

 _She split. Get in the back and find something with her last name on it. Time card, schedule, something._ He pushed himself out of the seat, picked up his coffee and headed towards the juke box, digging around in his pocket for a quarter. He didn't make it, though, slammed into a middle-aged man that was going to pay his check -- the coffee cup dropped and shattered, coffee splashing across the tile floor and Dean shoved the guy with a resentful "Watch it, man."

Getting into somewhere, even something like the back of a restaurant, with just a moment's notice to prepare, was a challenge. Sam got up quickly, moving towards the backroom door, next to the door to the restrooms. 

He slipped in, after a waitress walked out of it, causing the swinging door to slide open. He surveyed the kitchen quickly, glad that no one seemed to be near the door, and moved quickly down the row of pans to the very back, where the employee section was.

He could hear the ruckus his brother was creating outside to distract them.

He riffled through the pay slips he found, muttering 'Emily' as he searched. He finally stopped on an Emily Parker a little over half way down, only to be accosted by someone's voice.

"What are you doing?"

He lifted his head, seeing a young girl standing there, looking at him suspiciously.

"I'm--...” Crap. "I was looking for my paycheck."

"You don't work here."

"I just started -- I'm one of the people that was hired to work on the roof.” He jerked a thumb towards the outside.

"Oh...” She straightened, and her expression shifted. "Okay.” Sam was so goddamned grateful that she didn't figure out that he wouldn't be paid in the _kitchen_.

When time Sam got out, Dean was apologizing to the coffee-soaked customer under the hawkish glare of the angry, grandmotherly waitress.

Catching a glimpse of Sam out of the corner of his eye, he held his hands out to his audience.

"You know...I should just go.” 

He got no sympathy from the old woman's steely eyes, and the businessman mumbled something under his breath and headed towards the register.

Dean began to turn away.

"Actually...” He followed the businessman, leaning against the counter and looking at the Asian woman behind the cash register level. He smiled, faultless. "Could I look at your phonebook?"

The woman glanced from the disgruntled businessman to Dean. Obviously uncomfortable, she kneeled down and produced the volume from underneath the counter.

Dean flipped it open to a page. "Thank you,” he said. "So much."

When she was in the middle of processing his fellow customer’s transaction, he swiped the phonebook off the counter and walked out of the restaurant.

Sam waited for him, and raised an eyebrow at the book. 

"Are you allowed to--...Nevermind.” He turned, getting into the passenger's seat of the Mazda. Once Dean was in as well, he spoke again. "Emily Parker."

"Hope you have that map on you." Dean turned the pages, looking for P. 

Fifteen minutes later (ten to get there, five to get lost on irritating roads that didn't have marked names), found them pulling into the driveways of a tall, skinny house, obviously a good three or four decades old.

"...so. This is it. Supposedly.” It was sort of to the outskirts of town, and while Sam'd glanced it in passing during the past few days of searching, it had always been on the periphery.

Dean reached over, plucked the map out of Sam's hands, swung out of the car, glanced up and down the street, and popped open the trunk. He shoved a clip of hollow point bullets in one of his pistols and tucked it in the back of his pants, keeping it under his jacket, shoved a bottle of lighter fluid in his pocket, loaded a shot gun with two rounds of rock salt, folded it in the map and tucked it under his arm.

Sam followed him, tucking a high powered pistol into the back of his pants. He put his long, curved knife into his jacket pocket, more willing to rely on that in a close fight.

A short, balding man stumbled onto the porch as they jogged up the steps, sweaty skin pale, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

"You're the N of N and E Parker?" Dean took him in. 

The man leaned close, "Yes,” he whispered.

"We're here to kill your wife." For once, it was Dean who told the truth. 

The little man brightened. 

"Can you? Can you _really_? She's upstairs. She's packing."

Dean and Sam brushed past him into the house.

\----

Dean looked down at the groaning body of what had contorted from a beautiful woman to a grisly demon. Her left leg hung by a few loose sinews. A bullet hole gaped in the slender cavity of her stomach. Half of her face and her chest had been blasted away by rock salt and she was still hissing and growling on the floor, though her wide fish eyes were growing glassy.

Dean handed the lighter fluid to Sam and dug down in his pocket for his matchbook.

"I killed her,” N. Parker told them, standing by the wall. "I killed her, I stabbed her so many times and she died, and I...and I buried her. She came back. She walked in the kitchen door. It was six o'clock the next day. She told me...she told me terrible things, and _not to try it again_."

Sam grabbed the lighter fluid, turning to the mess of woman and demon on the floor. His eyes saw something shine, and he lunged forward, pulling out his knife, somewhat glad to get it back.

"Yeah, well.” Sam flipped open the lighter fluid and began to douse her. She roared and tried to bite him, but he swiped at her with the knife, shoving her to the ground and holding down her head with the heel of his boot. "For future reference? Don't stab your wife to death. It never ends well.” He finished emptying the bottle on to her, and nodded to Dean, keeping his foot there to hold her down till his brother threw the match.

Dean struck the match and the sharp smell of sulfur filled the air. He let it fall and stepped back, watching the flame catch and wincing as she bellowed out another bellowing roar.

The little man ran forward and stomped on her face, once, three, five times, until the flame caught the leg of his pants and he hobbled back, slapping at his hand over it.

"It's not that, it's not that I...I caught her. With a child. She..."

Sam pulled his foot back as the fire rushed up her body, moving fast enough without too much difficulty. He was pretty used to dodging fire. He watched the husband try to stamp on her head, and he attempted to stop him, and ended up having to help him put out the fire.

"She what?"

Dean lined the barrel of the shotgun up by eye and fired into the burning woman's midsection. The balding man leapt, startled. "Salt,” Dean explained. "Keeps a spirit down."

"Y-yes, well…She killed him. She was _eating_ him. In...our basement. My wife."

Dean looked at the man, and back at the fire growing in the center of the room. The ghoul was burning away, and he took that as a good sign.

_We better book it._

Sam looked a little unsure. They were leaving this guy with a pretty heavy burden. He would have pushed it, before -- pushed to stay and help, to do something. After the coma though, after seeing the third person to die for him, burn up over him, after having his head go even further out of control...he had his own issues to deal with.

"...right.” He paused to clean off his knife, then moved out of the room.

Dean followed him.

"What should I do?” N. Parker called from the top of the stairs.

Dean paused on the stairs, glancing back. "I'd get out of the state." 

N. Parker bustled down the stairs behind them, grabbing his coat off the hanger, and his car keys and wallet out of a tray by the door.

Dean shook his head and headed out the front door, careful not to touch it and leave prints. 

N. Parker pulled the door shut at their back.

Dean walked nonchalantly down to the car and slid in the front seat, pulling his pistol out of his pants, checking the safety was off and leaning over to put it in the back seat. He set the empty shotgun there, too, and turned the key in the ignition.

Sam watched the house where the small man was running about, fetching what he could while he could, as they drove away. He felt a little pang of guilt, leaving the guy in a ditch like that. 

He chewed on his lip the whole way back to the hotel, packing his stuff with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. He washed the flecks of lighter fluid off his hands, and they loaded up into the Mazda, settling down onto a highway headed to Jersey City.

Dean watched Sam brood from the passenger's seat. He wanted to say something, but he honestly couldn't say he felt as bad as Sam, and that was out in the open for Sam to read. It wasn't the first time he'd left town quick after a hunt. _'Stay free to hunt another day'_ was the attitude John had driven into him throughout his childhood. He shorted people all the time -- left them with massive credit card bills to explain and never knew exactly who or what kind of person would be facing them. He'd been desensitized to the idea long before Sam was let in on the dirty dealings. Sam had never been asked to participate by more than accepting the cards and fake IDs Dean and John gave him.

In many ways, Sam had been sheltered -- or the Winchester version of sheltered. John and Dean had always done the underhanded dealings, cleaned up the really bad messes. It wasn't that he was naive. He knew exactly what was going on. He just had always been able to disapprove from a greater distance. 

Still, the miles passed under them just as fast, and Sam found that with them his anxiety lessened, moved to the back of his throat to join all the other hundreds of things for him to feel guilty about.

He was distracted from his thoughts, however, when he saw a familiar black truck speed past them on the road. He heard the squeal of tires as it slammed on the brakes.

"Crap!” Sam shot up in the seat, turning around to look at their dad's car. "Pull over Dean!"

Dean swerved off the interstate, threw the Mazda sideways, tires screaming and tearing up turf. He hadn't done any fancy maneuvers in the car, only had one experience with how she broke. They wobbled dangerously close to spinning out. Dean shifted the car down to park and fell back against the seat, taking his hands off the wheel like it was hot.

"Glad I _hate_ this car."

He gritted his teeth and unbuckled his seatbelt, climbing out into the up-churned dirt.

Sam got out as well, shutting the door behind him as he watched the truck reverse down the highway, paused to shift gears, then turned into the little area on the side of the road they'd stopped on.

Their father stepped out of the driver's side once the engine had cut off, not bothering to shut the door as he moved towards the boys.

"Dad, what is it?” Sam asked curiously, tucking his hands into his pockets as he moved forward.

John raised the gun in his hand, straight at them, and fired.


	12. Chapter 12

Dean's first thought as John climbed out of the Sierra was that he recognized that face, that lethal, bulldog determination that John wore on the hunt. He'd hunted with John for years. Even that knowledge didn’t prepare him for John lifting a gun and firing at them.

Sam blanked for a moment, nothing quite making sense. The first thing that went through his mind was that there was something behind them. He'd watched his father fire at him like that before, hitting something behind him that he didn't see. The moment he heard the gun retort, his body reacted instinctively, leaping to the left. 

As he fell, he wondered if his father was possessed again -- which was a possible, if somewhat frightening, possibility. Halfway through the arc of his fall he felt something terrible and huge hit him in the chest. Right shoulder, he identified quickly. He knew, logically, it was something very small, a tiny packed piece of metal, but it felt like a fist, or a cannon ball. He'd been shot before. He knew what it felt like.

The force propelled him backwards, and his legs, too long for their own good, hit the back of the Mazda as he rolled back. He felt his hip impact the ground first. His body tumbled over a couple of times before he slid to a stop. He was panting, and he wasn't aware if he'd let out a noise or not.

He heard footsteps in the grass and half pushed himself up with his left arm, turning his head as he heard a click, and he saw the barrel of a gun pointed at him.

"...Dad?” Sam’s voice came out winded and confused.

Dean was moving already when the gun fired, moving when Sam fell headlong into the dirt, he skidded on the soil, stumbled to his knees, skin bruising, crawled the last few inches to Sam's crumpled body, aware of John's gun at his back, ignoring his senses scream of _danger_ , because there was nothing he could do if John wanted to shoot him.

Dean checked the wound, checked where blood was leaking out of his little brother's body, soaking into his shirt -- it wasn't lethal, not immediately lethal. Relief flooded his chest simultaneous with fear twisting in his stomach. He looked back over his shoulder at John, eyes wide, bewildered.

" _Dad_."

"Get out of the way, Dean,” John said evenly, though the end of the gun shook with almost imperceptible tremors. It didn't move, didn't change its target.

"Get out of the way...?” Dean asked, disbelieving. "Like _hell_ I'll 'get outta the way'."

"Dad,” Sam managed to get out again, his breath hard to access in the moment. "What's going on? Why're you--..."

The gun was suddenly closer to his face, with John's second hand supporting it.

"Don't say anything. Don't say another word.” John’s face and voice were twisted in anger and grief.

Adrenaline surged through Dean’s system and he reached out, pulling Sam's head against his chest -- he bet it hurt, bet it hurt him to move, real bad, but it was better than some alternative where John's brash, trigger-happy marine commando bullshit got Sam shot. Again. 

Dean's eyes stung hot. Anger flared with all the other emotion in him. It was John. He was sure it was his father, not some stranger, not some demon. Nothing gave him another impression.

"Dad! It's _Sam_. Christ."

"I said _get out of the way_ , Dean! Do what I say!” John barked his orders with all the authority of Dean's youth, but there was a rawness to him.

It was only at that moment that Sam stopped to feel hurt -- not just the hurt in his shoulder, which burned terribly when Dean yanked him in, but the hurt of realization. John didn't act like he was possessed, and besides, he didn't seem to be interested in going after both of them. It was _him_. Sam. He only wanted to shoot him, not Dean, and Sam felt a sting of hurt and betrayal and _why?_

Dean looked back at his father like he'd lost it. Dean was pretty sure John had lost it. Dean trembled, clutching Sam fiercely, his breathing shaky, blinking back a film of wet in his eyes that wouldn't be tears. They couldn’t be tears; not now, especially, when John was trying to force rank and the part of Dean that said 'How high?' when John yelled 'Jump' was confused as all hell, but there was no question of where Dean stood -- or knelt, as it was, going through stages of shock in the grass with his knees friction-burned.

"Dad, no _fucking_ offense, but you've _got a gun on my brother_. You think I'm gonna step off? You think you raised me like that?” Dean shook his head, light headed and racking his brain and Sam's blood soaking into his shirt, damp, then wet. Dean was terrified – the fear pounded through him, made demands. "You put the gun on the ground. You give me ten feet, or I swear to _god_ I'm gonna go for it."

"He's _not_ \--...!!” John hissed in instant reply, but bit off the end of his sentence, breathing hard. The gun was shaking just a little more now, but if anyone doubted that he couldn't hit his target, given the chance, they were a fool. "I raised to you listen to me,” he finally said, low and gravelly. "Listen to me now, son. Believe me when I say that this is for the best."

Sam’s hand, resting absently against Dean's shoulder, flexed suddenly, at that, tightening into a fist in the fabric of his brother's shirt.

Dean stroked Sam's hair, that familiar gesture from years back. He turned his head back towards his brother, rested his chin against Sam's head, whispered shh under his breath and had never felt so diametrically opposed to his father. John was wrong. Sometimes, John was wrong, anyway. It was Sam, and Dean wouldn't risk it.

_Sammy. I need you to give me somethin'. Give me what's in that head of yours._

"I don't know...” Sam muttered. "I don't understand, what--...” He felt Dean's hand on his head, stroking his hair slowly, and he knew that Dean wasn't going to move. He'd stay there until their father shot both of them, and Sam had a sudden, horrified thought that he might, that he'd bleed out into the dust with Dean, and it was almost enough to make him push Dean away, away from danger.

Not quite enough, though. His body fought every command that would move him away from that comfort.

John's breathing sounded ragged now, and a long, silent minute passed. Then there was the click of the safety and he lowered his arms in a fast, smooth motion.

"...fine,” their father said, panting low like he'd run a long distance, which almost never made him pant, anyways. "Get up, Dean. Get in the truck -- we're leaving.” He began to walk back to the truck.

Dean glanced after their father. John was on edge, maybe, finally, over it the edge, and he didn't want to push his luck when John had a gun.

_Show me what you're thinkin'. I wanna know it's you._

"I don't--...” Sam shook his head a little, his overwrought mind trying to figure out how to use the powers he barely had any control over in the first place. " _Dean_...” He shut his eyes tightly, pushing inside his mind, trying to direct his thoughts down that path that he knew lead to _brother_ , having no idea if it was even vaguely successful.

What reached Dean was, as usual, less of a thought and more like a roiling sea of emotion -- _don't understand Hurt Pain Shoulder What? Dad Deandeandean_...

Dean sucked air in through his teeth, letting the emotions crash through him. He pressed his lips against Sam's sweat-damp forehead, the hand soothing in Sam's hair falling to his pocket to dig out his cell phone and the keys to the Mazda. He pressed both into Sam's palm, gripped his hand until Sam grasped them.

"You've lived through worse, Sammy. I dunno what got to Dad, but we'll beat it, okay? Can I trust you to get to a hospital? I don't want him around you."

Sam grasped the objects in his hand lightly. He looked up at Dean, more shell-shocked than anything.

He didn't want Dean to go, but he realized that it was pretty much their only option at this point.

"Dean!” they could hear their father call.

Sam nodded slowly.

"Yeah... _Yes_. I'll be okay, I'll be...” He lifted his free hand from Dean's shoulder to the side of his brother's face.

Dean let his fingers rest over Sam's, briefly, and for once, for a minute, he didn't care what his father thought -- except his father was holding a handgun, so there were certain boundaries Dean respected, in terms of how deeply he wanted John to keep his cool.

"That's my boy.” He disentangled himself from Sam carefully, brushed his knuckles against Sam's cheek. "I'll find out what's goin' on.” He pushed dizzy to his feet, ached in his chest over leaving Sam on the side of the highway, sniffed his emotions back and rubbed his eyes -- had to look stronger than John if he was getting in a car with him, if John was gonna be unpredictable. He watched and made sure Sam could move, hoped the shock and years of training would blunt the pain for him until somebody could stitch him up. He nodded to Sam, turned away, holding his hands up, palms out, and walking towards John, a gesture of _'None of that was us exchanging a gun.'_

John wasn't looking at him, doing that check to make sure of that, which was definitely not like him. He was looking past Dean, staring at Sam. For a moment, it looked like he'd raise the gun, unlatch the safety, and fire again, this time hit Sam between the eyes -- but he didn't. He turned, getting in the driver's side of the truck. When Dean shut the passenger's side door, they pulled out from the side of the road swiftly, driving past Sam and the Mazda, getting back out on to the highway.

Sam watched them leave, just sitting there for a long few minutes beside the Mazda. Instinct drove him to move, but what had just happened had shaken him to the point where he couldn’t think straight. Thinking too much was one of his flaws, and now there was no Dean or Jess to bring him back to reality.

Eventually, however, the throbbing pain of his shoulder did it for him. He lifted a hand, pressing it against the bleeding wound with a hiss, his other hand still wrapped around the items that Dean had given him. He shifted over, on to his knees and leaning on the hand not pressed to his shoulder. It took some careful maneuvering to get himself upright without jarring anything, but eventually he was standing, leaning against the Mazda.

He moved around to the driver’s side, yanking the door open with his left hand before clapping it back against his wound. He got into the car, and his right arm automatically moved, lifting to take the keys and turn the ignition, but he grit his teeth in pain and let it drop before it could go through with the motion. 

Great.

He shifted around in the seat, dropping Dean’s cell phone over on the passenger’s side, twisting his left arm over the steering shaft, pushing the key into the ignition and turning it, the engine grinding back to life again. Shifting the gears into drive was equally as awkward and painful, but he managed and got back out on to the highway. Turning around and going back to Quidnessett, on to Warwick, would be too difficult, and likely as not take longer to get back to than just driving ahead to the next hospital. He had the map out next to him, and he haphazardly navigated his way towards it.

It was difficult to keep his mind on anything at all. Not after what had just happened. His shoulder throbbed with pain, echoing the internal pain and confusion he was suffering through. It wasn’t the first time he’d been shot by a family member. John had once shot through him to kill an imp. It had gone in through his bicep, near his shoulder, and it had hurt like a bitch, but John hadn’t really had a choice, because the thing had been attempting to kill him. Sam had, himself, shot Dean once -- the whole rock salt to the chest incident. He had also buried a knife in his father’s arm when he’d mistaken him for a demon, on a hunt. They’d pretty much all gotten a piece of each others flesh, multiple times, even. It was just part of the job. When you hunted all the nasty things of the night for years on end, you had a few mistakes to wear on your skin.

That wasn’t this, though.

He’d never felt _angry_ at either of them for hurting him (except that one time that Dean kicked him in the head when he was running after a Black Dog), because he’d always known it was an accident. This wasn’t an accident. His father had stepped out of that car, raised his gun, aimed, and fired. At him. And then, to top it all off, when the shot hadn’t killed him, John had marched over and shoved the weapon in his face to make sure that the next shot would finish the job.

Finish him off.

Sam hissed. God, his father had tried to kill him. That was fucked up, even for the family Winchester. Not ‘I’m possessed’ tried to kill him, not ‘A spirit has fucked with my brain and now I’m not in control in any rational way’ tried to killed him, not ‘You’re possessed and if I kill you it’ll kill the demon that has tortured our family’ tried to kill him, not ‘I’m a shapeshifter and not really your family’ tried to kill him. He had just _tried to kill him_.

Sam gripped the leather of the steering wheel with impassioned anger as he sped down the highway, veering off onto an exit with a screeching complaint from the tires -- because what he really needed right now was a car accident.

He and his father had always had issues, yeah, sure. He’d probably always hate John a little bit, for valuing his revenge over his children. Sam valued revenge over his own life, but that was different. He didn’t have two small boys who depended on him. He would always blame his father for raising him like a hunter, for making him have to try and walk like a man, try and act and talk like a normal person when under his skin he could flex claws as vicious as any beast. He’d had to sew his own sheep’s clothing to cover the wolf he really was. The wolf he was raised to be.

A part of him would always love his father for holding him like he meant something, for always telling him that he was something important, something precious. He’d always love him for the devotion he had to his wife, even in death -- the fact that John would never give up on finding her killer, and that he’d never betrayed her memory by taking any other lover. He would always admire the impressive figure that his father cut into his life.

And he would always despise him for the way he overlooked Dean. For the fact that he’d never told Dean that he was something important, something precious. 

But god damn it, John Winchester would always _be_ his father. 

No matter where he went, what he did, or who he became, he’d always considered the man family. He knew that if he had to chose between saving Dean or saving his father, he’d save Dean -- but his devotion to his family didn’t run _that_ shallow. He would never try to kill John (with the extenuating circumstances of his father being possessed by the demon that killed their mother and begging Sam to shoot him in the heart -- which anyone would admit were some _damned_ extenuating circumstances), he wouldn’t even stand by and let something else kill John. Hell, he wouldn’t even let John die in order to save his own skin. He knew he’d kill himself to save him, if he had to.

They were _family_.

And yet, there it was. That gun that had been in his face.

He pulled into the hospital, into the under-hang of the ER, shoving his foot down harshly on the brakes. He took a minute, sitting there and panting, before reaching over and grabbing the cell phone, unwilling to go without it, should Dean call.

He got out of the car, walking into the hospital with the right half of his shirt stained and a few drips of blood having made their way down to his jeans, but Dean was right. He’d had worse. He’d never had a wound that hurt this bad inside him, but he’d had worse, physically.

The staff rushed at him, and when he sat down on the gurney, he used the exhaustion under his skin, the tiredness that he’d been holding back, to take him over and let him be too delirious for questions. He could have walked all the way back there and stayed awake through getting stitched, if he’d had to, but it was better this way. No questions with awkward answers.

Unfortunately, the chemical crash had an unexpected effect. The adrenaline that had held him up had also held up his anger, his indignation (which he wore very well, if he did say so himself), and when his body went into shock so did everything else. 

He felt the diaphragm in his chest hiccup and jerk as he forced down the intense feeling of betrayal. Of hurt. His father had tried to hurt him. The man who had clapped his hand against his back when he’d sunk his knife into the bull’s-eye haphazardly painted on the side of an abandoned barn. The man who had made him spaghetti on his eleventh birthday, even though it was from some old crappy army recipe that John seemed to think was the best. The man who had cried quietly one night when Sammy was eight, drunk as he was, and talked to his youngest and finally, _finally_ told him about his mother, and it made Sam so happy just to hear John speak her name. The man who had told him to leave and never come back and then spent his spare hours keeping watch outside his dorm.

How _could_ he?

How could he have done that to him?

Sam felt metal forced into his body, and his muscles tensed up as the forceps burrowed into the wound in his shoulder, and he felt the odd and familiar sensation of a foreign object being slowly extracted from him. They dropped the compacted bullet into a tray by Sam’s head, and when he saw it drop, he realized why it hadn’t gone straight through him -- silver. The softer metal collapsed faster, slowing its progress.

His father had shot him with a silver bullet.

That was really all it took for the truth that Sam had been denying the whole way there to come crashing down like a burning building, letting the same lost fear in him fester and burn.

_What am I?_

\----

It was late in the evening when a loud knocking came at Ruth's door. It was harsh and insistent, and it didn't stop or pause to be polite.

Ruth set her cup of chamomile down on the table and climbed out of the armchair, walking in her slippers across the carpet to turn off the evening news. She headed to the door without hurrying, hoping her insistent guest, whoever it was, would waste some of their energy at the entryway.

No such luck.

Sam Winchester stood in her doorway when she opened it. One of his arms was in a sling, with some heavy bandaging over his right shoulder. He stared down at her, a little wet from the rain and looking even darker for it. He looked pale and shaken and determined.

"I expected you,” Ruth said, standing aside to let Sam into the apartment, her withered face impassive. "John should've known he was too sentimental."

Sam hand pulled back and slammed against the doorframe with all the considerable strength he had.

"You call _this_ sentimental? He _shot me_."

"You're not dead." The corner of Ruth’s eye flinched.

"Not for lack of trying,” Sam spat. "The only reason I'm not is because my brother got in the way. Why did Dean have to _bodily_ protect me from my father?” His fingers gripped the wood of the doorframe, but he finally stepped in, his eyes never leaving her.

"Because of what you are, what you were revealed to be.” Ruth closed the door to the hallway, leaving her back open to the youngest Winchester. "Will we do this here, or will you sit down?"

"I--...” Sam let out a shaky breath, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He felt that it lurch up in him again, that feeling of being utterly lost and adrift, and the fear of being not quite what he thought he was. "Just _tell me what's happening_ ,” he said in a pleading tone.

Ruth turned to face him, studying his face, contorted in its emotion. 

"You're a demon. An unclean spirit. You surely had a part in killing John Winchester's wife."

Sam stared at her, his lips still a little parted, his breathing picking up just slightly.

He'd thought it before. He'd considered it before. He'd admitted the possibility before. He had no idea why it shocked him so, why it felt like it burned him down to his core.

"...No. No, I'm not."

"You know enough to make that judgment? Why did you come to me, then?” Ruth examined his tall body, and then she walked past him, returning to her living room and her cooling tea.

"Stop acting like that,” he ground out. He choked in a breath. "Don't act like you're not changing everything for me. Don't act like this is nothing."

Ruth paused in the doorway, glancing to meet Sam's eyes. There was sympathy, there, and a certain reluctance. Her brow knit, but her words were steady and cool.

"You mean nothing to me, and I may kill you."

"I am a _human_." He looked at her, with all sincerity. All desperation.

"Yes,” Ruth agreed. "And no, also.” She sighed, and her stiff shoulders relaxed, slowly. "Discussing what it means to be human has plagued philosophers for thousands of years. I'm certain we'll lose little ground in the time it takes me to reach my chair. I'm old, and it's late."

Sam wanted to hit her. It hurt him that he wanted such a thing, but he felt like he was breaking, and she was treating him like he was having a childish tantrum.

Sometimes it seemed like everyone in his life just glossed over everything. Every time he went through something it was like everyone just raised an eyebrow and shrugged. God, he missed Jess. Missed the way she had looked and him and known.

He followed Ruth though, because he had little choice. His shoulders sagged under that heavy knowledge.

Ruth picked up her tea and lowered herself carefully into her armchair, watching Sam in his despondency, judging him on his reaction without pretense of doing otherwise -- gauging him beneath a measured gaze. The power inside him she did not fear, but in strength and in size he presented undeniable danger.

Sam sank slowly onto the couch that, a week prior, had been a pleasant spot for reading.

Now Sam's head remained hung as he asked for his death sentence.

"What did you find?"

Ruth found that answer easy enough.

"I dissevered your soul under the moon's increasing light, and under the full moon I conjured within the circle a spirit with whom I've often trafficked, bound him there and asked your nature and true name. The answer was 'wretched' and the name profane.” Ruth sipped her tea, the brackish taste of herbs on the roof of her mouth. She wanted him calm and talking, and she needed him to feel like she had control. "What do you think a demon is, Samuel Winchester?"

"I think a demon is--...” He shook his head slowly, realizing someone had just asked him to define the scent of ammonia, or something equally indefinable. He didn't have an answer to Ruth's question, stuck on the nature of himself. "They're infernal. Supernatural, of the infernal variety, as opposed to spectral or part human...” He dug into those reserves of knowledge, placed there by John Winchester's demanding tutelage.

"Infernal. I believe you speak Latin. What does that classification tell us?"

Sam shut his eyes tightly. God, he did not need a _lesson_ right now.

His hands clenched into fists on his knees. 

"From realms below. Subterranean. Of the lower regions, specifically of the dead. Infernus. Hell, in Latin. The root for many modern words that relate or are related to fire."

"It's a utilitarian classification. You might as well recite taxonomy. Wolf. _Canis lupus_. The classification lets us relate it to other dog-like carnivores.” Ruth shook her head. "You must think I'm patronizing you, but what I'm trying to say is that that tells us nothing of why a man shoots a wolf."

"I don't care!” He lifted his fists, slamming them down against his knees and looking up at her fiercely. "You are telling me that I'm a _demon_.” He gagged a bit. "That I'm responsible for my own mother's _death_. My own father just tried to kill me. I need to know what's going on and you're acting like--...” His normally witty mind failed him, left him staring at her needily. He needed to know.

 _So impatient_ , Ruth thought, the first distinct thought from the vault of her mind, slow and tired. She was silent as she drew her thoughts together, holding her tea to stop her hands from betraying apprehensions, but, after some time, she spoke.

"In my tradition, in Kabbalism, we have spoken long on evil. We do not agree on when and how it arose, but there is a general consensus on its nature. We do not believe it exists outside creation. That is, even in the most depraved thing, there must be some spark of the divine. But evil is disharmonious. Evil is when a thing turns against its created purpose, when it refuses the place set down for it.

"A demon, then, is a thing that should not be, a creature that has overstepped its proper limit. For some reason, for thousands of years, what we call demons, these aberrations, have been piercing the barrier between this world and a realm we call 'lower', what we call in Kabbalism _Sitra Ahra_ , the Other Side. They have murdered us, bred with us, and possessed us, leaving chaos in their wake. To those ends, they have sometimes masqueraded as human, but there has never been _anything_ like you.

"You seem to feel. To experience compassion. Demons, in their perversion, may exhibit a stunted range of baser emotions -- anger, perhaps, and fear -- but I have always known them to be below animals, below my cat, in their ability to sympathize -- although they may feign it in mockery. Even so, once John had the understanding to focus his research, we could only conclude that your purpose is something nefarious.

"You've lived as a human to adulthood, and now the powers of a demon are coming alive inside of you. We must ask to what ends they're intended to be used. Certainly, John has no intention of waiting and observing where there's a risk to his only surviving child."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but choked on it at Ruth's final statement. _Only surviving child_. He was no longer a Winchester.

Sam. Just Sam. Sam Nothingelse.

"...but I'm no different from who I was yesterday...” He tried, finally finding a little of his voice, but it was weak, coming out bare and thready.

Ruth's lips pressed to a firm line.

"I believe that. And you were the same entity yesterday that you were two and a half decades ago. _He_ unseated the soul of a human child and claimed dominion of its body beneath a ritual sacrifice. You should understand why we might be wary of you."

Sam's head dropped into his hands.

"But I'm not a threat! I'd never hurt anyone! Even if...Even if all this is true, I'm still me, and I'm still his son!” It all made a sick sort of sense. God, but he didn't remember any of it! As far as he was concerned, he was Sam and no one else.

He needed to talk to Dean.

Ruth took another, last sip of her tea and sat the cup and saucer on the table beside her. She could hear the desperation in his voice, and no part of her doubted its authenticity -- yet she severed herself from empathy.

"That is between you and John Winchester. I was asked only to root out the truth of your power, I will not mediate your infighting."

Sam's hands slammed down on the table, making her tea cup tremble and tip over, and her body tensed as she looked up at him. He was standing up, though he didn't remember getting up, his hands against the wood.

"It wouldn't _kill_ you to be more compassionate. Of the two of us, I'm the more human. If I'm a demon, that's pretty fucking sad.” He stood up swiftly, jerkily. He felt like he was going to pass out, but not in front of her. He didn't care what she said -- he was still a Winchester, and Winchesters didn't fall in front of anyone but their own. There was nothing else for him to do, however, than leave.

He stood there, staring at her, blaming her for ruining his life, and he could hear someone laughing at him for blaming the messenger, but who else did he have anymore to blame? 

When his muscles went tense and no more words could come to him, he turned and walked out of the old woman’s apartment, his shoulders heavier than when he entered.

\----

Dean had seen three state lines since he’d left his brother on the side of interstate, and he hadn’t talked to John in four hours. They spent an hour and a half of that in gridlock traffic, waiting for the police to clear up a four car collision. They got a hotel room in Baltimore, looking out at the city street, cheap floral prints on the walls. It wasn’t very Winchester to stop in the middle of the city, but they were tired, and shaken, and John looked at Dean and he didn’t trust him to drive.

Dean planted himself on the first bed he came to. Slid off his boots and scooted up on the mattress and let his head hit the pillows. There was nothing to change into. All his clothes sat in his bag in the back of the Mazda. He listened to the sounds of John settling in, unpacking what he’d work with over by the desk. Then John tossed his bag onto the other bed, pulled the chair out, and sat down. Dean heard books opening, pages turning, and, shortly, the susurrus of a scribbling pen. 

He hadn’t come to terms with the things he’d heard, but he knew who he couldn’t talk about them with.

\----

_John turned getting in the driver's side of the truck. When Dean shut the passenger's side door, they pulled out from the side of the road swiftly, driving past Sam and the Mazda, getting back out on to the highway._

_Dean watched John, wary, until Sam was a few miles behind them and he couldn't justify the fears keeping him alert, keeping him ready for a fight. The adrenaline surge crashed down around him. He shuddered, closed his eyes, and let his shoulders fall back against the GMC's bench seat. He hurt sick inside. He was scared. He didn't trust the man sitting next to him. He trusted Sam; trusted Sam to take care of himself -- at least there was that. He didn't know where to start sorting through it. He wanted to ask a lot of angry questions and he expected John to yell at him for it, but right now they were silent._

_It was twenty miles down the road, after a long, tense fifteen minutes of silence and breathing, that John spoke._

_"I know this is going to be difficult for you to accept. Know you think I've lost it. But I haven't. That thing? Back there? That isn't your brother, Dean."_

_Dean weighed the possibility, but Sam's emotions echoed poignant -- the confusion, the injury, and Sam's intense need for him to put their lives together again._

_"Say I believed you -- and I don't believe you -- when, exactly, did Sam stop bein' my brother?"_

_John's hands tightened on the steering wheel._

_"Twenty four years ago."_

_Dean's stomach dropped, dousing the simmering fury underneath his belly. He watched the world passing by in a blur of green and gray outside the truck cab’s window._

_"Then who...how...?”_

_Twenty-four years ago. Dean remembered the heat in the darkness, Sammy clutched tight in his arms. John rushing them to safety, his father's arms around him, while the house exploded above them -- the glass falling around them, the smell of smoke, and the soot._

_John's breath hitched as he took a sudden, pained breath in._

_"I don't know. I don't know, not...” He shook his head, refocusing his eyes on the road and his voice became steady again. "I always had some understanding that it was baptismal. The blood dripping, like a rite of passage or something. I didn't put it all together, though. He killed him. He killed our Sammy, and put something else in there.” His knuckles were white on the leather of the steering wheel. "Gave us some evil sonnovabitch to raise in his place."_

_Dean's mind recoiled, grasping at straws, at possibilities. John was imprudent, but when it came to the supernatural, he was always, uncannily right. If John said_ 'There's a nest of harpies up in Four Corners,' _then there was a nest of harpies, sure as day. The fear that had been sleeping in Dean, the old, mean fear, shook itself off and began its slow climb through his entrails to coil around his heart; it whispered_ Alone. __

_"Dad, I...Sam..."_

_He thought about Sam, slouched melancholy in the passenger's seat of the Mazda, guilting over leaving N. Parker to his burning house and dead ghoul._

_He thought about Sam driving himself to the hospital, injured and freaked out._

_He didn't see it, but John...John was usually right._

_"Gimme some time...hell, some_ proof _.” His eyes were hot again, but suddenly he wasn't so sure he needed to shield himself against John. Even if John was wrong, John was doing what he knew._

_"Ruth,” John responded, as if that was all the proof Dean needed. It still surprised him, hearing his eldest demand answers, so used to him just falling in line. "She looked...She looked at what she found. She said it wasn't human.” His eyes flicked to Dean. "You know I don't trust her type. You know I don't much go for the ones that dabble in the same stuff they hunt...But there isn't a hunter on the eastern seaboard that doesn't swear by her. When she tells me what she sees...I gotta know she's telling the truth.” There was a long stretch of silence before he spoke again. "I didn't believe her at first. But damned if everything I've found supports it.... His powers, the blood rite...” He shook his head._

_Dean couldn't argue, because he didn't know enough to argue, and he couldn't give in to the possibility, either -- even if John was sure enough to shoot._

_"It's Sammy,” he said quiet, like that explained it all._

_"It's not even human,” John growled, emotion building in him, anger at the thing that Mary had died to save, not knowing that it was no longer her son. "It's the kind of thing that we_ hunt _, Dean."_

_Dean pressed his hand to his face, felt the tears, there, damp. Now they were talking about Sam like an object. It was too much to handle, too big a breach to transition, and it cut, it wounded, to hear John talk that way._

_"_ Time _, dad,” he gritted, even while he was thinking_ I need to call Sam _._

\----

_I need to call Sam_ , Dean’s thoughts echoed back.

He wanted to get up out of bed and take a ride down the elevator, walk somewhere until he found a phone he could use in private, but he didn’t want to hear John calling him on it. He didn’t want to hear John talk, because every few, stilted lines they’d traded since that first conversation on the road stoked aggravation in him, bold and irrational. He had started to think he knew how Sam felt, how exchanges about nothing had escalated to shouting matches between his brother and his father so many times in the past. Dean always thought it was just Sam acting out, Sam being bullheaded. As Dean used to see it, John only opened his mouth to talk sense. Right now, the first, low words of whatever John said provoked the same irritation Dean felt when a mosquito buzzed around his ear -- the prelude to swatting. He couldn’t reason with it and he couldn’t explain it. 

Part of him was starting to think that he owed Sam some kind of apology, though another, stubborn, part was still unwilling to face the idea of having been wrong, at least about some of it, all those years.

Dean waited, willing his father to use the shower, or need to pee, so he could cut out on him. Before he dragged Sam back into his life, it wouldn’t have been like him. For years, he’d followed John’s every order, a long, thankless tour of duty. He knew his father didn’t much care for the new and different Dean Winchester, and Dean only wanted to call himself ‘improved’. He felt more useful to his father speaking his mind, that was true -- John needed checks and balances, but Dean had traded his old vices, the ones that let him soldier on with no praise and no perks, for a new vice he had a gut feeling his father would love even less. Still, he wasn’t sure he cared.

For all Dean had wanted to have his family in his life, his father and his brother, there was no getting around the fact that John shot Sam in the chest, and he'd been shooting to kill. Dean remembered how John looked at him, after he failed him with the shtriga. He wondered if that was in his eyes, now, when he looked at John. He wondered if John saw it, and he wondered if John was too wrapped up in his own business to mind.

It wasn’t that Dean thought his father didn’t notice him, but the only time he earned comment from his father was when he screwed up. Anything more, and he was doing what he was expected to do. Dean would be the first to admit he’d set himself up in that position. After the fire, he never asked his father for anything. If he wanted something to occupy himself with, he scraped together the money for it, himself, or he made it for himself out of junk around the houses of the people they were staying with. When he was sick, he didn’t complain about it. He could see his father was busy, busy all the time, and he missed his mother every day, but he remembered being tucked up with his mother in the recliner in the den, with Sam in the crook of her arm, and her gentle voice telling him, “Your father wants to be here with you and Sammy every day he can, but he has to work so we can have all the things that we have.” He didn’t remember what he’d done, anymore. He guessed he must have made demands when his father had somewhere else to be. Whatever it was, it was the last time it happened. After that, he always thought about if he was letting his mother down, even more so after she died. 

The only time that’d slipped up was out back of that bar in South Dakota, with Sam everywhere and the only thing on his mind. He still couldn’t ask himself what his mother would think of him, now.

The sound of John’s pen scratching away on the notebook pages started to wear on Dean’s nerves. He sat up, and he climbed off the bed. He stepped back into his boots, leaned over and tugged them up onto his feet with his index finger.

“I’m gonna get somethin’ to eat. You want anything?”

John grunted an affirmative. Dean didn’t look for any more than that, letting himself out into the hallway. He flirted with the girl riding the elevator with him and was glad to see he hadn’t lost his appeal. The metropolitan streets weren’t Dean’s kind of venue -- too many people, too many scents and sounds, too easy to get snuck up on. He got change from a kiosk on the side of the road, and with a little looking he found a public telephone.

\----

The phone only rang two or three times before Sam picked up, answering immediately.

"Hello? Dean? Is that you?” He sounded high strung.

Dean gripped the top of the black payphone console. 

"You alright? You make it to the hospital?"

"Dean.” Sam felt his body go almost limp against the brick wall, his mind whirling and he felt like he was drowning. "It's not true. It's not. I'm _me_. I've always been me. It can't be true. It just can't. I'm not...I'm not like that! I'm me, I'm me and I'm _yours_.” Because Sam had always self-identified as 'Dean's Sam', since he was old enough to even think such a thing. There was nothing of Dean's that was demonic or evil, so Sam clung to that, the logic that so long as he belonged to Dean he couldn't possibly belong to anything else. "You believe me? Don't you? Dean?” he pleaded.

Dean listened to Sam talk. It was a relief just to hear his voice. Dean had waited too long to call, from the sinking, begging quality of Sam's words. It wasn't the first time he'd had Sam panicked on a telephone. Last time he'd gotten in the Mazda and drove until he found him, and he might have wanted to, but it wasn’t happening tonight.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the pedestrians passing by -- normal people, totally removed from his personal drama. When he started feeling emotional down in his gut he always got the feeling everybody was staring. The reality was, none of them cared. He might as well have been alone. He turned back to the phone, rested his forehead on his arm.

"You wouldn't know, if I lied.” His first impulse was to say _Yes; Yes, I believe you_ \-- anything to calm Sam down, that old reflex. 

Sam wanted to be an equal, until he was a kid again, begging for Dean's approval. Dean bet he'd turn on those puppy eyes, all wide and lost and needing. He bet Sam had them on now, for nobody.

"Sam, it's not about believing you or not. I believe you believe you.” Dean knew that Sam wanted him to open up more. Talk more. It was a lot easier when Sam could just reach down inside him and pull out what he wanted to see. "I raised you. And you're mine. Don't let nobody tell you otherwise."

At first there was silence, heavy breathing as Sam listened to Dean's words, the first few making him grow even colder, but finally Dean said that last thing, and it splintered through until the silence gave way to desperate breaths. Finally, Sam sucked in a harsh breath that grated against his throat.

Dean pushed two more quarters into the payphone, in case.

"Why? Are you sayin’ you're not? You watch out,” he told him, as Sam caught his breath on the other end of the line. "I'm pretty possessive.” His lip twitched, for nobody. "You go to Ruth? That who filled you in?"

"Yes,” Sam got out, sounding strangled.

A lump stuck in Dean's throat. He wished, again, that Sam could pick his head...but there was no way, it was too far, so he struggled with the words bottlenecked beneath his vocal chords and forced them on, voiced the thought that had been eating him since the long ride in the GMC.

"Sammy. I don't wanna lose Dad."

Sam breathed slow, struggling to understand what Dean was trying to say.

"What?"

“What he did…. He made a bad call, but he doesn’t wanna hear that.”

"I can't--..." Sam shook his head a little, unsure of what to say. "What...what do you want me to _do_?"

Dean remembered all the times he called John on the phone, called his answering machine, left a message -- once or twice real shook up. John never once called back. Confessing to John's phone was like confessing to God. There were no repercussions, no judgments, no answers. He almost preferred it to this.

"Nevermind. I'll deal with it."

Sam was silent, torn between asking for more information and settling for what he'd gotten.

Dean figured it was the worst, most selfish time to let his own insecurities catch up with him. Sam was hurting, and Dean didn't know if he was supposed to be Sam's partner, who needed some backup, or Sam's big brother, who couldn’t ask for it.

"Nevermind,” he said under his breath, tried to muster up the presence of mind to play the older sibling.

"...alright," was all Sam could manage. Normally he would have pushed Dean further, looking to make him talk to him, but as it was there was just static and the quiet sound of Sam's wet breathing, the occasional hitches the only thing breaking through.

After awhile, after the silence stretched on for five long minutes, Sam hung up.

\----

There had been a time when normal stretched on, unending before him, a beautiful and tempting road, if he could just take the first step.

The first step always hurt the worst -- the lines you had to cross, the ties you had to sever. The people you had to lose. The life you had to give up.

It was something that Sam would never be able to explain to Dean. The way that he loved hunting, the way he loved the life they’d led -- and the way he’d hated it. The way it had been all he’d ever known, and all he’d wanted to forget. Nothing was ever as easy as black and white. Walking away from the only life he understood, the only way he’d ever lived, had hurt. It was like moving from the country you’d grown up in, moving to somewhere you’d wanted to be since you were tiny, and you finally got there. It didn’t make leaving behind that place any easier, because things always seem more beautiful when they’re at your back. That was what Sam’d learned.

He’d sworn to never hunt again, not because he couldn’t stand the thought, but because when an addict stops smoking, they have to stop completely.

Hunting hurt him as much as any substance, but the thrill he got, the feeling of rightness there…It wasn’t really something that could be honestly denied. And that was why he’d had to let go. If he ever hoped to achieve his dream, live a life that was normal, he’d had to give up hunting completely.

The road had been long and rocky, and once, once it had stretched on, unending before him. Unending with hope and future and being nothing more, nothing better or worse than _average_.

Now Sam was leaned back against a brick wall, the faint spit of Jersey rain coming down against his heated face. He felt limp, the wall supporting him, the cell phone grasped in his hand loosely. There was nothing on the other end of the line that could help him.


	13. Chapter 13

John Winchester woke up half the man he had been the day before. He woke up and sat on the edge of his motel bed, feet on the floor, wearing the clothes he'd worn yesterday and hadn't bothered to change out of. 

Twenty four years ago his world had ended on the ceiling. The shock of that night was nothing compared to the scalding tedium of surviving the death of his wife. Everyday the same, sun still rising, world still turning, bills still demanding. The first few weeks everyone tiptoed around him, casting sympathetic eyes his way, asking him if he was okay, as if he could ever be okay again. But that wasn't the worst, not really. Not compared to the looks of exasperation, the way they all expected him to be done, to get over it. As if his wife's death was just a nasty little incident. As if she hadn't been burned alive, as if it weren't like she would never breath again.

As if that single, precious life hadn't been taken from him, from his children.

He didn't understand when people told him he had to move on, get on with his life. They clearly didn't understand what it was he'd lost. His life, as far as he was concerned, was over. There were only two things left: vengeance, and his children.

And now he was denied both.

He couldn't kill Sammy. He knew that much. He'd known it when he'd left Jersey, swearing death when he realized that his wife had died protecting the thing that had killed her. He'd known it when he'd sped down the I-95, loading the gun as he drove, thinking of his vengeance, thinking of his son and his son's betrayal of him. Thinking of the fact that his son was not, in fact, his son.

Underneath all that, he'd known that he couldn't kill Sammy. 

Even if he was a demon, even if he was something evil, even if he played some part in Mary's death, John still looked at him and saw a son. He'd known that Dean would object, that Dean would protect his brother, and he had never been prouder of his eldest, stronger in his convictions than John would ever be. John couldn't even decide which conviction to hold on to. Staying true to Mary and killing her killer, or protecting his child.

He'd told himself that he was going to kill Sam, give Mary what she deserved, but the truth of the matter was, if he'd really wanted Sam dead, Sam would be dead.

John Winchester didn't miss.

Sammy, his youngest son. The boy who'd always had his own head, always been so strong, so proud. The boy that stirred that parental affection in John that he'd thought had died out with Mary. It wasn't that Dean didn't. He couldn't explain it in a way that made sense, not to his sons. But Dean was his right hand man. Dean was the boy he depended on to have his back in a fire fight. Dean had always been ready and willing to die for their cause, just like his father. Dean's loyalty and devotion had never been questioned, and so John's love for him, he felt, was a given. Sam, though. Sam tried him. Always tried him, pushed him as a father to find new and uncomfortably emotional ways to voice his love. Sam was the son that had demanded more. Sam was the son that had looked him in the face and told him that he wasn't enough, and had made John realize it was true.

That didn't make him give up, didn't make him change, but he knew it was true, nonetheless.

Sam had managed to package loyalty and rebellion into one neat package when he walked out the door, hurt and pride all at the same time. Sam had been strong in ways that John and Dean hadn't even dared to broach. And John couldn't accept it, but that strength came from the same source as Mary's killer.

Once, even if Sam didn't remember it now, he had been a demon. Once, he had wished to kill a child, take its body, kill its mother. Once, he had been the very evil that John hunted.

Now, John didn't know whether to hunt him or embrace him. All he really knew was that he was divided in his own loyalties in a way that he hadn't been for twenty four years. His loyalty to Dean, his loyalty to Sam, his loyalty to his wife, dead and gone and forgotten by everyone who loved her except _him_.

He wouldn't let it go. He would _never_ let that go.

Which left him sitting there, on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, trying to decide, if he ever saw him again, if he could murder his son.

\----

Dean woke up later than he expected with his brother’s dried blood in his shirt and on his chest and his father sitting still as a stone on the edge of his bed. Dean looked at him and he hoped it was remorse. He climbed out of bed, headed over to John’s open bag and changed into one of John’s black t-shirts, pulling his flannel on and then his jacket. He stopped at John’s jacket, palmed the cell phone out of the pocket and tucked it in his own.

“I’m gonna scrounge up a little more food, and I gotta…call a friend.”

When John didn’t answer, Dean left.

The hotel had one of those complimentary all-you-can eat buffet breakfasts. Since it was a cheap hotel, it was a pretty cheap buffet breakfast -- bagels and muffins out of bags, eggs from a carton, scrambled up, sliced up melons, and small boxes of cereal. Dean never got to do all-you-can eat buffet anything, though, and, as it turned out, he could eat a _lot_. When he was too full to take advantage of anything else free and John still hadn’t come to get him, he ducked outside and stretched his legs on the Baltimore streets, alone in the crowds.

Dean felt like his father in a nasty way -- like he was seeing evil everywhere. He remembered a time when he could look at the people on the street and know that people might not be inherently good, but at least there were worse things out there. Now, he wasn’t too sure at his ability to pick out the bad from the good, because he couldn’t definitely say that Sam _wasn’t_ a demon. (That bugged the hell out of him.) In a world where he relied on what he saw and experienced to make his calls, the problem, the question itself, baffled him with its focus on something as intangible as the soul. He knew he shouldn’t have let the old witch of an ‘aura-reader’ work her mojo on Sam. John had been right. Nothing good came out of drawing glyphs to control forces better left un-meddled with. (As long as he totally forgot the good it had done in getting rid of Meg and her brother. The Colt John carried followed the same kinds of principles.)

Three slow blocks from the hotel, stopping to look at a roadside newsstand, he remembered the call he’d wanted to make. He ducked off into an alley, in the quieter space between two buildings, took John’s cell out and, for a minute, just looked at it. He felt a little guilt about implicating other people in his fucked up life. It wasn’t just a self-esteem issue; his father’s friends had met very real death-by-demon -- but Dean’s head was clogged up with white noise. He was mired in the middle of everything, and he knew he had to find some perspective.

In the end, he only had one friend. He dialed her cell phone, sent the call, and hoped.

“Hello?” she answered, he voice clipped and professional.

“Cassie.” Dean breathed out with relief.

There was silence on the other end, and then, in a different tone altogether, confused and curious and maybe he heard ‘hopeful’, too: 

“…Dean?”

“Yeah. It’s me.” He grinned against the receiver. “I bet you’ve been pinin’ every minute.”

“Where are you? Are you in town?”

“No. I’m a long way from Missouri.”

“I’m glad you called. I worry. Are you still on the road with your brother?”

“Yeah. Kind of. We’re still poppin’ ghosts.” He listened to his own breathing, steadied himself before he said, “Things…They’re kind of grim.” He heard her start to ask and cut her off. “I don’t wanna talk about grim. I wanted to hear from normal. How’s that workin’ out for you?”

Cassie remained quiet, and Dean knew she was thinking about getting it out of him. Finally, she consented.

“Normal’s treating me pretty good. Normal may have landed me a job with a paper in Saint Louis. We’ve all got our fingers crossed, here.”

“That’s awesome. You deserve it. You found a stud to replace me yet?”

“I’m not sure what could _replace_ you, but I’m seeing a guy.” Dean could hear her smile, just the way her tone warmed. “He’s...I don’t know if it’s serious. We haven’t talked about what would happen if I got an apartment…you know, in the city, but it’s only a two hour drive. I…kind of hope he’ll stick around a little while.”

Dean only had one question.

“Who’s better lookin’?”

He heard her chuckle.

“You’ve both got your advantages. I think it’d be a little weird if I sent you pictures of my boyfriend over the cell phone.”

“Maybe a little. How about what you’re wearing? …not wearing? Can I get a picture of that?”

“That depends on how grim ‘grim’ is.”

“Grim is pretty grim.” He let it hang in the air a minute. “Nah. This is my dad’s phone. Sam’s got mine.” There was no way to explain what crazy monogamist he was dating right now. “S’good enough to know you _totally_ would have.”

“Oh, yes. I was digging out a teddy.”

“Oooh, the little lace one?”

“I bought some _new_ ones since back then.”

“God, but I loved that little lace one. Remember when we were watchin’, uhh…Battle for Planet Earth?”

A pause.

“We must kill Mothra? We must send in _all_ the Armed Forces?”

_Flashes of skin and touch and the war cries of giant, prehistoric monsters._

“You’re damn right.”

“It’s coming back to me.”

Their laughter mingled through the line. When Dean stopped to notice it, he could hear his own thoughts, again. With Cassie, he’d never felt buried under the name Winchester. Not until their last day together.

Telling her so came easy, but that was because of Sam. He waited until the humor passed, after the laughter died down, glanced down the alley at the busy city street and tried the words on for size.

“You know, you’re one of the best things that’s happened in this freaky life of mine. Take care of yourself. Stand by that man of yours. You love ‘im. I hear that. You got that _thing_ in your voice.”

“Dean…”

They sat on the phone in silence, but it wasn’t the tense, uncomfortable silence that ended his conversation with Sam. Dean heard all the things she wanted to say: that she loved him, that the new man in her life wasn’t a proxy for him, that she wished there was something she could do for him. He didn’t need to be psychic to hear that.

“I know,” Dean said quietly, in the end. “But I’m startin’ to think…”

“I _don’t_ know. I don’t know what you’re dealing with. But you will come back from it. And you’ll come see me.”

“In Saint Louis, right?” Dean couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah. In Saint Louis.”

Dean felt the tug of family responsibility telling him his father had to be ready to leave by now. He halted up a second and added:

“Oh, you might wanna get, uh…tested for chlamydia.”

He heard Cassie sigh.

“…at least you didn’t say hepatitis.”

\----

Dean had made the right call; John was prepared to get on the road when he got back to the hotel. Dean had nothing to pack. They got underway beneath the same uncomfortable silence that had permeated their interactions the day before. Dean didn’t ask where they were going. Any direction away from Jersey City was _away_. He was still flashing back to Sam hitting the dirt. He could still hear John telling him to get out of the way. He knew Sam was alright, alive and alright, but it was hard to move past that crack of gunfire and Sam crumpling, harder to move past his father’s words: _He killed our Sammy, and put something else in there. It's the kind of thing that we_ hunt, _Dean._ He’d called John on it once, but deeper down he knew his father made his moves on hard information. He still wanted to argue about it, but his best defense was the memory of a two year old laughing _Dee! Dee!_ on a hotel bed while his fingers tickled his fat toddler belly. As far as Dean knew, John had never granted a stay of execution on grounds of cute, but at least the long ride with the only the background noise the Sierra’s tires tearing over the asphault gave him time for his head to catch up with what his gut was still telling him: that he knew Sam better than anybody, and Sam was his brother through, even if no one else saw it.

If no one else…

 _The flames parted and she stood as beautiful as she’d been in all Dean’s memories, the shotgun shook in his hands, and she was smiling. He heard himself say her name._ Mom…? _She was looking at him, and he knew she could see the kind of life he’d led without her, the things he’d done and the women he’d fucked, but she looked through all the darkness and she saw her little boy and her smile spread and the way she said_ Dean _he knew she forgave everything, loved him anyway, as much as a spirit could love._

_She walked up to Sam and the smile lingered, and she said Sam, as if she was meeting him for the first time, and she looked into him, in turn. Dean could only see her face in profile, but he saw her smile fade and in its place was a gentle sorrow._ I’m sorry, _she said, but it didn’t sound exactly like an apology, and the longer she looked at him the more her expression changed, until Dean couldn’t recognize what it was anymore, and she turned her head to the side, like a different angle would shed a new light, and she backed away one step before she turned._

Dean pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger’s side window. He imagined it all in a different light, the words of one spirit to another -- _‘I’m sorry. My mistake.’_ If their mother didn’t recognize him, then what the hell _was_ Sam?

She’d protected them both, though. She hadn’t thrown Sam to the poltergiest or warned Dean off of him. She’d claimed Sam as her son. Dean wanted it to count for something. Count against what was looking like a complete rejection from John.

Dean had seen the person Sam was when Sam was alone in the dark, scared and searching inside himself. He held onto Sammy when Sammy was as frightened as a child, curled up in his arms, latched onto his clothes, dripping wet and freezing cold. There was darkness in Sam -- darkness at the edges of his mind, unspeakable shadows skittering and lurching. Dean had seen it, but they’d beaten it, they’d kicked its ass, and then it was just Sam, and all that inside Sam, still, but quiet. If Dean had to, he’d kick its ass, again.

Dean knew what could happen if no one checked those dark impulses. He’d seen Max Miller splatter his own brains against an olive wall. He knew it could be Sam. He’d recognized Sam in Max, the anger, the alienation, only all of it amped up so high the kid self destructed, exploded a fuse. Dean didn’t guess _that_ was in the Demon’s master plan. What good were phenomenal psychic powers in the hands of a bunch of suicides? That wouldn’t be Sam, though. Dean had said it before, and he was still determined.

_“’Cause you got one advantage Max didn’t have.”_

_“Dad?” Sam was whining now. Wonderful. “Because Dad’s not here, Dean.”_

_“No,” Dean corrected as he tugged his jacket over his shoulders. “Me.” He smiled. It shut Sam up. Dean saw the reluctant hope in Sam’s eyes, and his smile warmed. “As long as I’m around, nothin’ bad is gonna happen to you.”_

Dean had the feeling that if he wasn’t around, something bad _would_ happen to Sam. He sat up, pushing himself away from the cab door, blinked a few times as he roused from a half-doze. Here he was, in a truck, headed hell knew where, leaving Sam further behind every mile. And what was Sam doing? Probably wallowing in his emo bullshit, brooding and bemoaning his dark fate. Next time Dean saw him he’d have fuzzy gray arm warmers and horn rim glasses. Dean couldn’t let that happen to any brother of his. It’d be an embarassment. (And he knew somewhere in there was that scared little kid, suffocating in the dark.)

He glanced over at his father.

John drove as straight and unflinching as he did everything else. He was used to moving across great distances in cars, and by this point in his life, he could make the trips he made on autopilot.

Didn't mean he did.

He was too hypersensitive not to notice the look his son was giving him.

"Something you wanna say, Dean?" he asked, turning down the windshield wipers as the rain outside slowed to more of a drizzle.

Dean lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug, letting his eyes slide towards the road.

"I'm gettin' off at the next stop."

John lifted his head from its usual slump. He turned it to look at Dean for a long moment before looking back out the windshield.

"Oh?"

Dean watched John sidelong about the same stretch of time, but he had no second thoughts.

"I'm gonna go find Sammy."

John's expression shifted just somewhat, darkening, but with a wince of pain around the edges of his lower eyelids. 

"...Dean." He didn't say anything else, just his eldest's name, in that tone that conveyed more than any words could. At least for Dean, anyways, who was a master in decoding all things John Winchester.

Dean's chest constricted. A tremor stuttered his breath. But there was no heat behind his eyes, not yet. A kind of calm, inevitable knowing that nothing he said next could end well kept him steady.

"I don't want it to be you or him."

"Dean, that's not what this is about," John spoke as evenly as he could. "I'm not trying to make you choose. You're all the family I got left now. From where I'm standing, Sam's a danger, and I don't want to send you into that. You've taken down nastier things, but I know you. You wouldn't raise a weapon to defend yourself if--..." Despite his firmly held beliefs on this, John still had a difficult time thinking of his youngest would raise a weapon against them.

Dean felt emotion charge up in him, and, not for the first time in the last year, he heard himself raising his voice to the person he respected most.

" _Twenty-four years._ I don't know how many evil bastards Sam's put down since he started huntin', but I bet you can't count 'em, either. I've seen him _exorcise_ demons. I know who he is."

"You know who he _thinks_ he is," John retorted instantly. "I don't doubt that he really thinks he's Sam, and I don't doubt that he really believes he's as human and you or me. But he isn't. Deep down, he just isn't. And if a time comes that those memories come back to him, he could go quick from being our Sammy to being something that'd scar you up worse than anything else." John didn't take his eyes off the road. "I've watched you two grow up. I know how much Sam means to you, how much you consider him your responsibility." His eyes finally flickered to Dean, but only for a second. "If that turn ever comes…it's not just the bodily wounds I worry about, Dean."

"You don't. You don't have any damn _idea_ how much Sam means to me." Dean felt trapped -- the truck cab too small, open road on all sides whizzing by too fast to step out on. Despair sunk in his chest. His words were angry, and he couldn't take them back, couldn't back down, either, his jaw clenched.

"You think I don't?" John snapped back. "He's part of my family too." For the first time, his voice changed in pitch just slightly, not with tears or anything like that, but just the force of raw emotion. 

" _No_ , Dad--..." Dean backed off the intensity in his voice. He could see the conversation devolving into a shouting match. He'd seen Sam and John take chunks out of each other for hours. "I know," he said more quietly, and he let the air sink out of him. "But I'm-- I'm _not_ \--..." He grit his teeth in frustration, balking at the words, screwed his face up, and then his shoulders fell. He looked anywhere but John.

John heard his son's voice lower, and despite his desperate need to unleash all his nasty tension and hurt, he wasn't going to use Dean as a punching bag.

He quieted a bit. Not a lot, but a bit.

"Not what?" he gruffed lowly.

"...talkin' about the same thing."

"What're you talking about then, son?"

Dean didn't think he'd be able to say it.

Seconds passed, and he breathed with his lips parted, through his nose and his mouth, uneven. Hurt tore up his chest, and he thought about his father making him get out on the side of the road, and he thought about his father yelling, and he thought there might be some things even worse than that. When he saw himself losing his father, losing the man who had raised him, protected him, taught him everything about hunting and how a man should live -- when he saw himself losing his father and still couldn't think twice about going back for Sam, he knew there was no getting around it.

It still sounded like someone else talking.

"...Sam'n'I...we got... _involved_.... It musta been.... It's been months, now."

"Involved in what?" John looked over to his son, his mind not going to the place that Dean wanted it to. After all, what father would ever think such a thing of his two sons? It was a fairly big leap to make from the way Dean phrased it to the truth of the matter. 

Dean looked back at his father, searching his face for any sign of understanding. After so many weeks wrapped up in Sam, it was hard to imagine having a conversation, having _this_ conversation, with somebody who couldn't read his mind.

There was no connection, no matter how much aching desperation showed on Dean's face.

"Dad. I'm talkin' about _sex_."

John's body gave a small jolt, his expression stretching tight over his face.

It wasn't hurt. Not yet. Just the shock, and beyond the jerk of muscles clenching, he gave nothing away.

Dean turned away and hit his fist against his knee and whispered _Fuck_ underneath his breath, stared blank into nothing and gulped a couple of times for air and felt the beginnings of what could have been tears but they passed. It was difficult enough to breathe and his feelings hadn't caught up to him. He shut his eyes a few seconds...then he braced his hand against the seat and he forced himself to turn back to his father, because he'd looked death in the face. Even if this was bigger.

John drove for while, saying nothing. 

When the next exit came up, about three miles later, he flipped the truck’s indicator, turning off on to the ramp. The truck drove steadily up the road, turning on to the gravel road at the top. He navigated along the country road, surrounded on either side by tall, green pines. He finally turned off on to a large half circle in the trees, intended as a shoulder for any passing traffic.

Some well-meaning individual had placed a picnic table out there, but in the faint drizzle and next to the deserted road, it just looked sad.

John parked the truck and turned off the engine, sitting there for a moment, looking down at his hands, which had fallen to the lowest point on the steering wheel.

A few long seconds crept by, and then he opened the door, stepping out on to the grass. He walked slow in front of the truck, walking down the slope of the shoulder, past the old picnic bench. He wavered for a moment, walking to one side, then another, but eventually stopped, his hands placed against his lower back, rather than on his hips, his elbows jutting out behind him, making his coat stand up at odd angles.

He stared up at the tops of the pine trees.

Dean watched him through the glass, raindrops slowly warping his field of view. When John stood there, still, Dean watched the dashboard, instead, and then the car seat, down to his right. He couldn't tell if it was better or worse than his worst case scenarios, and the waiting was miserable. He had no apology to give his father. Nothing to soften the blow. No pretense of ' _I'm only_ sort of _fucking my brother_.' Things had progressed past experimentation. There was only the wait, and John's judgment ahead, and Dean would feel it, but it wouldn't change anything. 

John stayed out there for over half an hour. He never turned back to face the truck, but for five minutes, somewhere in the middle, his shoulders seemed to shake, just a little, and he hung his head. He lifted a hand to his face for awhile.

When he seemed still again, he walked slow, moving along the line of the trees, his hands at his lower back, again. Eventually, however, time picked itself up again, and John Winchester moved back to his car, his steps heavier and his face older. He walked around the front again, pausing only to kick the mud off his boots, before opening the door again, getting into the driver's seat.

The silence didn't let up, though. He didn't start the truck again, but looked at the center of the steering wheel, as if it could tell him the words he was looking for.

Dean glanced up as John's boots stomped the dirt outside the truck. He reached up self consciously to wipe at his eyes and his cheeks, at the drying tears he only half-remembered shedding. He looked at his father, again, and wished he'd do _something_ \-- not just sit there wet and probably cold and completely closed off.

It took another long period of nothing for that to actually occur. John raised his head, and he glanced at Dean in a strange way, almost as if he was afraid of looking at him straight on, and John had never avoided eye contact with anyone, let alone his son, his subordinate.

"...You know I've never approved of the way you treat women. I raised you better than that," he admonished with the same unforgiving nature he'd always had. "I raised you to be a better man than that." John took a deep breath. "I recognized that I didn't give you much option. We all need our comforts." John had never been an angry drunk, nor had he ever been violent or even loud. He was quiet. He'd come home late and nurse at that bottle in a chair until he was unconscious. He'd never raised a hand to his children, but he knew that he’d done as bad, in a way, by being unavailable to them at those times. "But I know that you've always taken Sammy on as your biggest responsibility. I remember when you used to be scared of jumping or running around concrete, sidewalks and the like, scared of skinning your knees when you tripped, like you did on the drive way back in Lawrence, when you were three. I remember the way you leapt to catch Sammy when he almost fell off that ledge on the back of Jim Murphy's church. I remember the way you caught him with blood on your knees and elbows, and how you didn't cry 'cause you'd done good, and you knew it." John looked up, swallowing hard. "It was why I knew I could always trust you with Sammy. 'Cept that one time." His eyes flicked to Dean again, longer this time, thinking of the incident with the shtriga. "But even that, you cleaned up yourself. I'd never be so stupid to think that you were hurting him." He turned, then, to look at Dean, though he didn’t meet his eyes. He looked shamed. "I'd never think something so ignorant as you abusing Sammy, or anything like that. I know he means more to you than breathing." He finally looked up, looking into Dean's eyes, and there were emotions there that John had never worn in front of Dean. A deep fear, disappointment, and, most of all, a terrible pity. "I only have one question on this and we're done. And you answer me honest on this one son..." He took a deep breath. "Are you in love with him?"

Dean met John's eyes with his head held up and his stomach dissolved in a sick that wouldn't stop. 

"Yeah, Dad. I am. Like stupid."

John nodded slow, turning back to look at the steering wheel. He reached around to start the ignition.

"When you went out last night, you called him, I assumed."

Dean faced forward.

"Yes, sir."

"Where is he?"

"Jersey City...sir."

John put the truck into gear, reversing on the gravel road, the wheels of the truck spinning for a second in the mud before locking in. John drove them back to the highway, except he got on the I-95 going the other way, back north.

Dean had felt worthless in the eyes of his father once before in his life, but he'd never felt pitiful. He didn't expect his father to look at him without that palpable disillusionment, again. Not for a long time. No, maybe never. He felt down on the ground, like a snake on its belly, like a slug wallowing in the rot beneath a rock. There'd be no grandchildren that weren't already out there, illegitimate bastards he'd left behind. It'd always be just the three of them, because Dean was hot on his little brother. Dean knew it wasn't acceptance. It never would be. It wasn't understanding, and it never would be. 

John remembered, keenly, what it felt like to be in love. He remembered it when he met Mary, when he was Dean's age. And he remembered what it was like to lose that love without saying goodbye.

It was something he had never wanted either of his sons to go through. One of them had already, one who he was trying to think of as _not_ his son, despite all the difficulty he was having with that. He didn't even know where to begin on thinking of this.

On the one hand, he was trying to force himself to see Sammy as something evil, something not his. If that were the case, he couldn't see it as incest, but rather as Dean getting involved with the other side, and for that to ever happen, Dean would have to have been manipulated. It was the easier way to think of it, to John. Except for the part where it really did require him to give up all hope on this Sam being his son.

The other option, of course, was that even though this Sam wasn't _his_ Sam, didn't have the soul that his child had been born with, it was still Sammy, still their Sammy. In that case, his sons were sleeping together. They had crossed some unforgivable line, walked into some terrible country, and they'd never be able to clean it from their skin.

There was the last option, the greyest one, the one that John wouldn’t accept because he didn't deal in grey. In that option, Sam was a demon, but an innocent demon, one who had lived his entire life as best he could, being a human because that's all he thought he was. And in that life, he'd warped a real human, his biological brother, and turned him to something sick. And neither of them had truly sinned, because neither of them knew the influence spinning their lives out of control.

They were about two hours outside of Jersey when John felt his hands tighten on the steering wheel, and the rough skin of his face absorbed the moisture of his tears as they dripped down into his stubble. He cried in a wheezy, tight way, like he was having trouble breathing, and he was murmuring 'I'm sorry', 'I'm so sorry', beneath his breath like a prayer. It was hard to say if he was apologizing to Dean, to Mary, or to God. It seemed like he was in his own world, his own agony.

It was the way the Winchesters broke.

Dean listened to his father cry, hours of road ahead of them. John Winchester, who could recite ten different exorcisms from memory and cap a succubus executioner style, who ordered a son to shoot him in the heart with a general's resolve. It was Dean who could bring him to it; Dean who could break him. Dean took that heavy, he took it hard, he engraved it deep where he made his memories -- the sound and the sight, at the corner of his eye, because he'd made his choices knowing full well his father would be hurt by them a long time before the nature of the act was called into question.

But below all the pain and the self-depreciation, a part of Dean was rejoicing -- a part of him was singing. He had his father, _still_ had his father, and he'd find Sam.

\----

It was more than three hundred miles back to Jersey City. Dean watched the road signs flash by as they grew closer: one hundred twenty-five miles, ninety-seven miles, seventy-two miles.... By the time the signs counted down to fifty-four miles, the sun was dipping beneath the horizon, casting a hazy red glow over the interstate.

Dean wondered what Sam was doing, hoped Sam hadn't decided to hit the road, himself, during the day. Dean only had one friend, but Sam had a lot of people to fall back on.

"Can I use the phone?"

John looked over at Dean's briefly. He had another little internal battle in the internal war that was raging, the war that had been raging since he'd found out the nature of his youngest child. This was just another bump in the incredibly jagged road.

But they needed to know where Sam was, if they were going to find him.

John shifted one hand off the wheel, digging around in his old coat until he pulled out of cell phone, and he passed it over to Dean silently.

Dean felt their hands brush as he took the cell, tried not to think about John knowing, at least guessing, all the places his hand had been. He flipped it open, dialed his own phone instead of finding it in John's phonebook. It felt a little revealing to make the call with John there in the car. Dean felt like he'd already revealed too much.

\----

The Jersey morning had been pale and grey, and the rain from the previous day hadn't let up.

Sam had dug out the IDs and credit cards from the Mazda, finding himself a decent place to stay the night. Better than slouching in some alley, at least.

He didn't get up from his itchy single bed, just lay there as the sun rose behind those clouds, and rose, and peaked, and began its descent.

He had to get up some time in the afternoon to piss, and when he came back to the bedroom he was bored enough to flip on the TV and watch, but he didn't really pay attention.

He wasn't hungry enough to go out.

When the light outside began to fade, he heard the phone vibrate harshly against the bedside. He saw 'Dad Cell' come up on the caller ID, and it made his stomach twist violently. Everything he'd been trying so hard not to feel that day came back to him.

He flipped it open, answering with trepidation.

".....Hello?"

"It's me."

Sam let out a breath of relief, his shoulders relaxing.

"Dean." He said his brother's name in that tone that meant ten thousand things all at once.

Dean exhaled some of the dark black _rotten_ that'd been congealing in his thoughts through the long, silent car ride, the phone a lifeline to a part of the world not clouded with John's conflicts.

"You still in Jersey?"

"Yeah, I am." Sam paused. "I'm at the Econo Lodge on Tonnelle Avenue." He leaned back against the headboard, and bit his lower lip for a moment before speaking. "Are you coming here? I really--...I wish you were..." He shifted a little, looking down at the sheets. "I want to see you," he said honestly.

"...I'm comin'." There was warmth in his voice -- he’d been right about Sam, but it faded as he corrected himself. " _We're_ comin'." He didn't look at John. "Dad's with me. But he's sure as hell not gonna shoot anybody."

John glanced at Dean, understanding that the last comment was directed more at him than Sam. He didn't say anything, which was about as much as an affirmative as Dean would get.

Sam was quiet for a long moment, thinking about this. He wasn't sure about seeing his father right now. Wasn't sure, because one part of him really wanted to see John, another really didn't. 

"...okay," Sam finally responded. "I'll--...I mean, I'm in room fourteen, on the first floor." Sam twisted around, putting his feet on the floor, worrying at his lower lip again. "I know you can't say anything. I mean, I assume he’s with you, but I'm--...I--...It'll be really good. When you get here. Even if he's here, too." Sam smiled a little, palely. "I'm sorry, about last night...I just really need you here."

"I'm fifty miles out. We'll have to stop and get directions. Most, it'll be two hours." There were things Dean could've said, and he thought about it, thought about driving it in with John in some real spiteful way, but he recognized all the wrong in that, and it wouldn't be about Sam. It was Dean’s own fault Dean felt like trash. "You'll know when I'm there, anyway," he said, instead, smirked thoughtful. He imagined Sam sitting in some Econo Lodge, reaching to hear his thoughts. It was a pretty flattering image. It made up for getting hung up on; it was a start, at least. He snapped the phone shut, because there was nothing to add to that. He glanced at his father, slid the cell phone across the seat. Emotion knotted up at the base of his throat. For the first time he felt a complete liberation, a total severance, from John's authority, and his words carried gravity. "You hurt him, I don't know what I'll do...to you. Check the gun before we get out. I don't care if he grows six heads and spits fire."

"Dean," his father said in the even tone that returned to him now that his emotions had been left a state line back. "I've hunted the demon that killed your mother for twenty-four years. There's nothing that'd stop me from finishing that. You know, even though we never spoke on it, that I would die for this, if it came down to it. If Sam...If Sam's part of this, even if he doesn't know..." John took a deep breath, pushing himself back against the seat and straightening his back. "I'm not going here with the intention of violence. I don't intend to...do anything. But I'm letting you know, now, that you can put the knife to my throat all you want. You're my son, I wouldn't hurt you more than I had to, to put you out, but you wouldn't stop me." 

To John, it honestly didn't matter that his second in command was no longer loyal. It hurt him, somewhere deep down, beneath his sternum, but he wouldn't say that. Whether Dean was loyal to him or not, his son would always be his inferior when it came to fighting, and John'd never dealt well with threats, not from anyone.

Dean heard him. He listened. The information, he needed. John's son felt like shit, drawing lines with his father, trying him out, but the part of him John had raised as a killer heard something different. He heard what he needed to, and made a coal black mark of it down where he remembered all the secrets to undo every other thing that had stood against him. Clammy panic groped around in his chest, took grip on his throat and crushed the breath out of him. His eyes stung, and he longed to rewind, to take back everything he'd said, the words that had just come out of his mouth, everything he'd told John hours earlier, take back Jersey, go back further than that...but then he had to ask himself, did he want to go back to November second, nineteen eighty-three, if it meant he would never know Sam?

His new reality caught up to him suddenly, like a train wreck, long cars slamming together with impossible force, metal screaming. He wanted the father who used to scoop him up in a bear hug and laugh, the father who used to kiss his mother in the kitchen long minutes while he tugged on her skirt and whined about hungry, the father he remembered as more of an idea of a person. If that man was buried somewhere beneath years of hard living, Dean had done his part in killing him, today.

The now was difficult, and bleak. The now offered no easy choices. The now twisted and shrieked inside him. The now was deafening and inescapable. Dean's mouth hung open, but it wasn't to speak. He forced it shut, and he swallowed. He'd sliced through every tie that bound him to John but the blood in his veins and the hate they shared for the demon who'd set it all into motion, and he had asked himself the question _Would I kill my father to keep my brother alive?_ There was nowhere to go but down, and nothing to feel but hopeless. He watched out the window for the next mile sign, for the tangible proof that he was getting closer to anywhere but ‘now’.

It was late evening by the time they pulled into Jersey City, and John's expression seemed even heavier than before. Coming back to this place, the place where he'd learned about Sammy -- it didn't make him feel great. 

They pulled into the Econo lodge, and John turned the truck off.

"Go," he said in simple command, then got out and started walking to the office to get a room.

Dean watched him leave, John’s back, the old battered leather coat. He climbed out of the truck, remembered to lock it behind him, and went to look for room fourteen, first floor.

Sam opened the door when Dean was three steps from reaching it.

Dean stopped there on the cement, looked at Sam, need etched into his face beneath the shadow of two day's stubble. He walked three steps into him and let his weight fall forward, fisted his hands in Sam's shirt and couldn't talk, and couldn't think, but knew he didn't want to be anywhere else.

Sam brought his arms up around Dean's body before Dean was even finished with the motion, and he bent down, lowering his head to hide his face in the crook of Dean's neck. 

Dean pulled him close, cleaved to him, no space between them and pressing closer. It felt like hiding from the world with Sam bigger, made up for all the leaning up to find his mouth, because _damn_ but he needed it. He didn't have comfort to offer more than his body, there and tangible, but he let Sam take what he could find in that, slipped one arm around Sam's back and made it a hug.

Dean knew John wasn't watching. Dean knew John was somewhere else, and he was grateful John had given him that, because John might owe Sam for jumping the gun, but John didn't owe him anything for the knife he twisted in John’s stomach.

After a moment Sam looked up again, enough to notice that his father was nowhere in visual range, and he pulled back, taking two steps back into the room, where no one could surprise them. He pulled Dean with him, hands gripping the lapels of his jacket. When Dean was close enough, he leaned down and kissed him, his hands remaining against Dean's chest.

Dean kicked the door closed behind them, mouth hungry and eager, though his lips moved slow and searching, one hand still clenched loosely in the fabric of Sam's shirt. The taste of Sam's mouth was everything for the first minute, the kiss stale, because no one had eaten and no one had cleaned their teeth, and Dean wallowed in it as long as he could, until the past two days started sneaking through his mind

 _Sammy...._ It was the preface to a confession. He slipped back, tried to rein in his breath, and he looked tired, half past dead, and sick, and sad, and his voice was a hoarse whisper. 

"I fucked up."

Sam looked down at him, lifting one hand to press briefly against the side of his brother's head, before lowering to rest lightly against the side of his neck.

"What? What happened?" Sam asked, dreading the answer after all this, but needing to know.

Dean struggled with the words, and for a few moments it looked like Sam might have to pull it out of his head, again, but then he got it out, it came tumbling out, and it showed on his face that something left with it

"I told Dad." 

Sam looked at him, uncomprehending because his mind was on the current dilemma. He realized though, after a moment, what Dean meant, and his eyebrows shot up.

"About _us_? Now? With _this_ happening?"

Dean's expression sunk into misery and he wanted to apologize but he failed short of that.

"I didn't _mean_ to."

"I--...whu..." He lifted his hand from Dean's neck and placed it against his own forehead. "What did he _say_?"

"He said a lotta stuff." He couldn't bring the exact words up, even in his head, everything too fresh and too painful. He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, pushed his hands down in his pockets and looked off towards the wall, looked down at his feet. _And then, he cried._

"A lotta stuff like what?" Sam looked down at his brother, staying close to him, serious, but too tired to be anything but soft spoken. "We're talking about the guy who tried to kill me, yesterday. I gotta know if he's going to be blaming me for perverting what he thinks of as his only surviving son."

"No, nothin' like that." Dean winced at Sam's words, but he shook his head. "He didn't say anything like that."

"...then what did he say?" Sam asked again, a little more quietly this time. He lowered his hand, back to his brother's shoulder, pausing impulsively to move the backs of his knuckles over the line of Dean's jaw. 

The tension of discomfort ebbed out Dean's body a little with the touch. He'd felt disconnected all day, vaguely, at first, and then violently. He found his words, with difficulty.

"He said..." His brow knotted up the way it did when emotion got between him and English. "He said he knew I wouldn't hurt you. And he...asked me...if I was in love with you. And then he...turned the truck around." It wasn't everything, and it wasn't exact, but it was as much as he was willing to put out there, and even that much brought him lower. He'd hoped that just seeing Sam again would be some sort of panacea, but it wasn't. He was sharply aware that confessing to Sam couldn't mend anything he'd done.

Sam shook his head slowly, confused. He had hoped that seeing Dean would soothe it all away, make the world make sense again, but it didn't. It was just more disorienting than before.

But at least Dean was here.

He leaned down to kiss him again, in lieu of words he couldn't quite find, and hoped that that would be enough.

Dean let him, his hands still shoved down in his pockets, the bracelets and his watch rubbing his wrists uncomfortably. He felt grimy, and his chin itched. He still wanted the world to go back more than he wanted to move forward. All of him remembered Sam had been through hell, too, and what's more, at least Sam hadn't set himself up for his. He let Sam kiss him, their lips moved together, and he let all the need spill out across their connection, and the regret that it was all he had.

After a minute, their foreheads rested together, and Sam's eyes remained shut. He didn't know what to do from this point, what he was supposed to do. If he was this horrible demonic thing, shouldn't he at least have a purpose? He didn't feel one. He still just felt like Sam. And when he opened his mouth again he asked what was probably the most irrelevant question he could.

"...when he asked if you were in love with me...what did you say?" His words were quiet, but a second later there came a sharp knock on the door, and Sam jerked his head back. He swallowed, looking at the door, then glanced at Dean. He walked over to it, opening it to reveal their father.

Dean remembered clearly _not_ mentioning the room number, but, then again, he wasn't surprised.

"Dad," he said, a greeting and a resignation, sliding his hands out of his pockets, tugging his pants up on his hips and trying to look like some guy who _hadn't_ been kissing his brother.

John looked in at Sam, his eyes moving to the sling supporting his youngest's right arm.

"How's your shoulder?" he asked with his usual gruffness, as if he hadn't been the one to put that wound on Sam's body.

"...it'll heal." Sam shrugged his good shoulder a little. There was an awkward pause. Sam stepped out of the way, his father walking into the room.

Dean stood there uncomfortably as John passed by him, the idea in his head that between him and the son who might or might not have risen from the depths of Hell to kill their mother, he was lower on the totem pole.

Then he registered that John wouldn't have said anything to him, anyway, and felt kind of stupid, but not so sure he was far from the mark.

The three Winchesters stood in the room together, all looking at one another, the two sons looking awkward and John looking like he could be anywhere and fit right in without problems. After a moment, John held room keys out to Dean. 

"Might wanna get your things out of your car," he suggested. There was an unspoken command that Dean would be staying in the other room, one with two beds, not Sam's room, which just had one.

Dean looked at John, disbelief underneath his expression, but he swiped the keys and stuck them down in his pocket because he wasn't great at arguing a point. If he set in on it, he knew he'd lose. He looked at Sam, though, knew he wasn't going anywhere if Sam wasn't cool being left with John. He didn't see how the two of them could get around yelling about this one, but for once Sam wasn't by himself on it.

Sam's eyes flicked to Dean's, and he nodded faintly. He tucked his hand in his pocket tensely, anxiety and even a little fear coursing through him.

He was fit, he was strong, he was fast, and he was well trained. But John was better. He always would be. If John wanted to kill him, there was little Sam could do about it.

It was one of the reasons he was okay with Dean leaving the room -- he suspected the truth. If John had truly wanted him dead, he wouldn't have even felt himself hit ground, back there on the side of that highway.

Dean walked over to get the keys to the Mazda from the bedside table and headed out into the night, glancing back once over his shoulder before he shut the door, a gloomy place in him sick with following orders hoping Sam gave as good as he took, and the rest of him disgusted with how selfish that was.


	14. Chapter 14

The door clicked shut.

Predictably, after that, silence reigned. It seemed to Sam that with a rare few exceptions he and his father were either utterly unable to communicate anything at all, or else they were screaming at one another.

John moved stiffly, shifting to seat himself in one of the chairs by the small table in the room. Sam watched him, and he realized they were both sizing one another up. Waiting for an attack. The youngest Winchester swallowed slow and moved to the other chair, sitting opposite his father.

“…explain it,” Sam finally said, after the silence went on too long, and he knew he couldn’t outlast John.

The older man’s eyelids fluttered just slightly as he drew in a pained breath.

“It looks for children. Psychics. Or, children who will become psychics. On the night they turn six months old, it comes to them and kills them.” John leaned back in his chair. “Not their body, their mind. Just the soul. Puts in a demon in its place. What plans it has beyond that, I don’t know, but I’m sure you can see the benefits. Without a human soul in the body, the demon can’t be exorcised. In fact, it is, in every way, exactly like a human, except it lacks a soul. That’s why you can do things like touch holy objects, walk on hallowed ground, and recite exorcisms, yourself.”

“Why blessed silver didn’t burn me,” Sam added quietly.

“Yes,” John nodded and sighed. “That’s why the silver bullet wasn’t lethal to you.”

“Why’d you use it, then?”

“Because it was there.” The older man shrugged slightly. “I wasn’t thinking much, on the way. Had this notion that you’d hurt Dean, that you knew what you were, that you’d been tricking us all this time.”

“But I _haven’t_ ,” Sam pleaded.

“I know.”

“God, I’m your _son_.” _That_ was when the anger chose to hit. He didn’t know why then of all times, after two days of nothing but numb, after two days of being unable to feel anything at all, after kissing Dean, after seeing his father again. The idea that he was tricking them was what made it come back. “How could you _do_ that to me?” And just like that the anger was gone and he was nothing but pained.

“…I’m sorry, Sam.” Not Sammy. Not Sammy, ever again. “I know you think that.” John’s breathing shifted, then, in some way that Sam knew he’d heard before but couldn’t quite place. Something different than the slow, steady breathing that John always had, as if nothing could shake him. “I don’t even know what to think anymore.” John lowered his head, holding it in both of his hands.

Sam felt a streak of desperation run through him, as if he were being told to never come back all over again.

“ _Dad_ \--…” he started.

“ _Don’t_!” John barked out, the fingers in his own hair suddenly tightening. “…don’t. It’s not that easily fixed. You can’t just…I know you don’t remember. I know you think you’re just Sam and I should get over this.” He raised his head slowly. “But _I_ know, Sam. I know what you are. I know what you’re not, and you’re not my little boy. Can you understand that?” 

It was weird how his father was saying these things, in the most remorseful voice in the world, as if he hated to say them but had to, anyways. Sam had no words.

“I want to think that you are. You can’t think I don’t. I want to let things go back to being how they were, being simple again.” John laughed and it sounded like a cry of pain. “As if they were ever simple…But there’s someone I _cannot_ forget. I remember holding Sammy in my arms the day he was born…Sam, I remember that child. I remember how he used to look at people, like he knew everything that was going on in their heads. I remember how he used to shriek for the bottle. I remember him as a person. I _knew that boy_. He was my _son_ , and you _took_ him from me. I can’t just pretend that he didn’t die. I can’t just say ‘well, you don’t remember, so it’s alright.’ My son is dead. I can’t just absolve you of that. Do you understand?”

Sam stared at him, and never before had he considered himself a murderer, but in that moment he saw that accusation in John’s eyes. There it was, just behind the promise that had always been in his father’s gaze, that he would always protect his children. It rent, like John wanted to protect him from the world and tear him apart all at the same time, like he loved him with all his being and couldn’t stand him -- like he saw Sam, saw the boy he’d raised as his own, and saw the demon that had killed a little boy, all at once.

That was when Sam really understood. There was an innocent boy who would never grow up, never go to college, never make love to someone, never have children of his own. Never do something stupid and fuck up, never give someone something precious. Never have a chance to realize just how amazing and fucked up family was, all at the same time. People died all the time, but this boy was dead because of him. _Because of him._

“Oh god,” he hid his face in his hand.

There was no coming back from this.

“I’m not…I’m not that kind of person. I’m not, I wouldn’t--…” he tried to reject it, to find some piece of sanity to cling to.

“Do you deny what you are?” John asked

Sam couldn’t respond.

“Do you deny that you have done things beyond what any human could do?”

“…no.”

“Do you deny that you are tied to this demon? That it is somehow bound to you?”

“No.”

“Do you deny that you are something inhuman?”

“No.”

“Do you deny that there was at least one life…one life that was lost because of you?”

“…no.”

“Do you deny that, even if you don’t remember it, there is something in you that is as evil as anything that we’ve hunted?”

“No.”

“…do you deny that you always had your brother wrapped around your little finger?”

“No,” Sam choked.

“Was he ever the type of person to hurt others? Was he ever the type of person to do evil, take selfishly?”

“No!” He was vehement on that, suddenly.

“Do you really think that a person like that would want to…Would want to sleep with his brother?”

“…no.” Sam felt cold. There was no anger in John’s voice. He thought there would be. The pain of this conversation felt like claws flexing into his skin, but when he looked up as saw the expression on his father’s face he realized that the last thing John wanted to do was hurt him. It was true. As much as he and Dean had tried to justify their relationship, there was a biological imperative to avoid sleeping with one’s family, and even if they were both male and that irrelevant, it was psychologically unhealthy with the history of the relationship and the power structure inherent in a family. People who’d grown up together as siblings weren’t meant to sleep together. It wasn’t about being closed minded or open minded or any bullshit like that. What he and Dean were doing was undeniably wrong. It was just that they wanted it more than that.

“Do you deny that if you weren’t what you were, this probably would never have happened?”

“…no.” Sam’s voice was steadier now as he stared at his father, and there was a logic to his words. Demons brought sin with them. Sam had seen it happen. It was their nature to twist and destroy, to tear through the natural order of things. There was a sense to this. A sense that Sam could see distantly yet felt unable to fully comprehend, like he couldn’t quite accept it.

That he’d fucked this family so many ways, taken so much from them, that it was beyond all belief. That the Winchesters, once happy, whole, were a ragged band of fucked up men who couldn’t move on with their lives, couldn’t find contentment, because of actions he had taken so long ago that he couldn’t even remember.

But John was right. The lack of memory didn’t change the fact that one time he had wanted this. It couldn’t absolve him, and wanting absolution on the grounds of innocence of conscious wasn’t fair to any of the wounded parties.

“…Dad,” he pleaded, suddenly aware that he needed his parent, the only parent he’d ever known. But his parent and accuser were one in the same.

John stood up suddenly, his eyes darting away from the needy expression on Sam’s face. He had never been a cold father. He had never been distant from his children, for all the hours of training he put them through. It had always been to protect them, to keep them save from all the evils of the world. It was difficult, now, to see that childlike expression on Sam’s face and not be able to respond to it with the fierce paternal instinct he’d always had.

“…I have to leave,” he choked out, moving to the door. He pulled the keys to the Sierra out of his pocket with trembling fingers and tried to remember a time when his family had been whole.

Sam watched him go, and he found no words.

\----

Dean dug his bag out of the Mazda and headed to the room John rented to clean up. He could go longer without a shower. He could and did. The feeling on his skin didn't have much to do with oil and dirt. He showered and scraped the stubble off his jaw, packed his stuff away and shouldered his bag. He figured he'd sleep where he wanted to, and he headed back to room fourteen.

The door to the room was open. His father was nowhere to be seen, and a quick glance to the parking lot confirmed that the truck was gone. 

Sam sat in the cushioned reading chair in the corner of the room. He was leaned over, his head in the hand not hampered by the sling.

Dean leaned against the doorframe, a part of him relieved that Sam was as intact as he'd left him.

"Hey."

Sam's body jerked a little, and his hand shifted quickly, rubbing his eyes as if he were sleepy.

"Hey,” he responded, looking up and schooling his expression to one of normalcy.

Dean didn't believe Sam's face, but he let him have his peace. He stepped inside the room, shut the door behind him, and flipped the deadbolt, a defiant gesture towards a once-again-absent father who would knock, anyway. He sighed and tossed his bag down at the foot of the bed.

"One of our better days, huh?” He didn't flash a smirk.

Sam didn’t smile in return.

"This sucks.” His turned his face downwards. "This really sucks..."

Dean walked around the end of the bed and let himself drop, holding his hands up apologetically.

"Wish I could tell y' I had somethin' for it.” There was no magical cure-all he was hiding, none of that older sibling bravado he'd led Sam on with when they were kids. He barked a short laugh. "Well, you know, I _would_...” Right now was when he'd break out the lying, full steam, hardcore. Sam didn't want that, anymore.

Sam looked over at him. Part of him would always believe in Dean. Even though at the age of five he'd already been rolling his eyes at Dean when his big brother'd say things like 'I can do anything. Why? Because I'm the oldest.' 

Apparently it didn't matter how old he got. He'd always be looking to his brother for assurance, for acceptance, for that magical ability to make everything right again.

"...Tell me--...Tell me I'm still your brother.” His father had already rejected him as a son. He wanted to hear, from Dean, that they were still family.

Dean smiled lopsided with a face that said _'You kiddin' me?'_ , even if it was sad and wan. He put on his attitude and leaned back on his hands, cocked his chin, looked him square and sober, and said it matter of fact.

"You're my little brother, dorkface."

Sam felt something tug at the edges of himself. He pushed himself up, walking slowly towards the bed, standing between Dean's parted knees. He lifted his free hand, fingers brushing lightly over the material covering Dean's chest.

"Do you still--...” He did know if he could really say 'do you still want me' or 'do you still want this', but the question was there nonetheless.

Dean wet his lips. He looked up at him, searching for something in his face, and it was a few moments before he spoke.

"You remember what I told you? In the motel, after that Max kid went off the deep end on us? Long time ago, now."

Sam's expression twitched just slightly, remembering how much that had meant to him at the time, the way it had stirred that familiar feeling in his gut. The feeling that he had someone to depend on, someone who would fix the world if it fell off its axis.

"...Dean.” He shifted, lifting his left arm, removing his right from the sling.

Dean sat up, their bodies close. He grasped Sam's waist, lightly, and he rested his forehead against Sam's stomach, smirked to himself and then glanced the long way up Sam's body, lifting a brow.

"I'm not hedgin' my bets on this. So...it's me an' you."

Sam looked down at him, and he wondered if Dean could feel his stomach clenching with relief. He moved his hands, both of them this time, to his brother's head, fingers moving over Dean's hair, the sides of his face, his neck, and back up again.

Despite the ordeals of the last two days, Sam still didn't avoid eye contact, still looked straight at Dean like he wasn't afraid that Dean could rip everything out of him with only a few words, or perhaps having pure, blind faith that his brother would never do such a thing.

Dean swayed with the touch, the feeling of Sam's rough hands on his skin easing through his misgivings, now, like they couldn't before, now that Sam knew what he'd done and John was gone, at least for awhile. He closed his eyes, and let his remorse sift down beneath other, more pertinent feelings.

_I know what's in your head, too. Even if you don't remember._

Sam's thumbs traced Dean's jaw slowly, like they were memorizing the sharp line of it, until they reached the joints, back near his ears. His hands moved down the sides of his neck lightly, until they rested against Dean's shoulders, and he began to push him backwards slowly. Sam shifted one of his legs around his brother's, until his knee could rest on the edge of the bed. 

Sam crawled over his brother slowly as he pushed him downwards.

Dean let Sam lay him out, shifting against the mattress to get comfortable, still damp from his shower, his clothes clinging at his skin. He was exhausted, emotionally exhausted, but he'd been riding in a car all day and there was physical energy in him left untaxed. His green eyes drifted open; he lifted a brow appreciatively. He slipped a hand up around the nape of Sam's neck, his fingers in Sam's scruffy hair.

Sam looked down at him, searching for answers that Dean couldn't possibly have, but appreciating him, anyways. He was still warm, still there, still alive. The combination of the three made him better than pretty much everyone else in Sam's life.

He leaned down with the guide of his brother's hand, until their lips met, again, his head canted to the side.

Dean was surprised at the ease with which he crossed the line of John's tacit disapproval of their sharing a bed. It wasn't that he loved his father any less. He would still do anything for him that didn't betray his brother. He still respected him and everything he'd done for the two of them, everything he'd taught them, but he recognized it was time to start drawing lines of his own. His first go had been a disaster, but then, he didn't have a lot of practice at it.

Kissing? There, he'd reached pro status. He indulged Sam in the making out Sam always dug, his lips and hands making reassurances he knew his brother was seeking.

Those reassurances led Sam to burrow in even further, finding the comfort of a brother's arms and a lover's lips, at the same time. Despite how sick that was, it was pretty nice as well.

Even if he was the cause of all this.

Sam lowered his body slowly, his legs straddling Dean's thighs. He came to rest over his brother, pressing their chests, stomachs, and hips together intimately, supporting his upper torso on his good arm so that they could continue kissing.

Dean wallowed in the surround-Sam of a guy bigger than him stretched out over his body. In a life where he was always on the edge, letting somebody as strong as Sam get up on him like that took a lot of trust -- he was relieved that trust still ran that deep, that he hadn't tricked himself along this far.

Dean didn't know what he'd feel if they got to the other side of this and it turned out Sam had had a part in killing his mother. The idea stung. But he still believed that even if Sam came into the world with some kind of murderous intent, he'd grown into the person Dean knew now. Dean had seen demons, in all their mindless violence, and that wasn't Sam.

Sam was the person Dean'd raised him to be.

For awhile it was just kissing, lips wet with involvement, tongues pressing together and twisting around one another. When Sam drew back, he searched Dean's eyes intently.

"I want to,” he finally said quietly, for Dean alone. "I want you to."

Dean's brow had begun to furrow when comprehension dawned and he mouthed _'Oh'_. A shiver shuddered up his spine; his hips flinched against Sam's. Dean didn't usually take a long looks at his brother's face (except maybe lately, when Sam was sleeping), and when he did, he saw the copper starbursts rimming the pupils of Sam's blue eyes. He wondered what color he'd thought they were before. 

"...I could do that,” he murmured, voice tinged with wonder. He could feel a perplexed astonishment breaking in his chest, and arousal following close behind and lower down.

Sam licked his lips slowly, and nodded.

"Okay,” he murmured. "Okay...” He rolled to the side, shifting up to carefully remove his over shirt, movement in his right shoulder coming a little awkward. "Get the--...get what you need.” He spoke softly again, keeping his eyes on his brother.

Dean sat up, paused at the edge of the bed to look at Sam, caught his breath and pushed off, walking around the end to where he'd tossed the bag down carelessly. Purple bottle. Not the condoms. Why were those still in there? Purple bottle. And he had it. Read the label. It wasn't the first purple bottle in his life. He reminded himself of that.

"So you really never...?” _Did this. With a girl._ He stood, denim shifting against a comfortable arousal, glancing over at Sam.

At any other time, Sam might have given him a strange look. But he didn't. He just shook his head.

"No.” There wasn't anything else to say.

Dean moved that out of the column with things normal people did during heterosexual sex. Admittedly, the girls he hooked up with might not combat the hostile paranormal for a living, but they weren't necessarily normal people.

He paused and undid his belt, dropping it on top of his bag, and he stepped out of his boots. He climbed back onto the bed, crawling the couple feet up to Sam, the bottle pressing into his palm. He couldn't say he had any idea what Sam was setting himself up for, not really, because he hadn't tried it out himself, but at least he knew some girls were pretty hot on it, and they had _options_. 

Sam had hit on the one thing that could take his mind off his bum day.

A quivery feeling shivered down in his stomach. His hand brushed over Sam's cheek and he leaned in and kissed him, again, hungrier than before.

Sam leaned into it, lifting one hand to hold Dean's against the side of his face. He could taste the hunger in Dean's mouth, and it made everything come alive inside him.

Sam's arms came up around Dean's neck, his upper body falling back against the mattress, pulling his brother with him, their lips never separating. That hunger turned Sam into a live wire, the need that Dean had for him, and he was gripping his brother tight, kissing him harder and hotter than he had before, letting his body arch up against his lover's.

Dean slid a leg over Sam's waist as Sam fell back, and he set the bottle within arm's reach on the bed while their lips made demands and Sam ground up against him and shit that was good, shocked pleasure through his hips, up into his stomach. He groaned a noise between surprise and appreciation.

Sam's shoulder was complaining loudly, but there was little to be done for that, and he didn't particularly care. 

When he pulled his lips from Dean's, he was breathing a little faster, and he moved his arms down to tug up on his brother's shirt. He winced and shifted his weight.

"You're going to have to take your clothes off.” His shoulder simply wouldn't cooperate with all that movement.

Dean's face said _’Come again?’_ and then he remembered the bullet wound and shook it off. 

"Sorry, man,” he muttered, a little breathless. He shrugged off his jacket and the flannel underneath it, tossed them to the side, sucked in a breath, and then stripped his shirt over his head in one long motion. He let it drop beside the bed, grinned down at Sam, shirtless. "I get to take your clothes off, too?"

"Yeah. You do.” Sam lifted his bad arm, using the other one to lean his weight against, and pressed his hand to Dean's abs, flingers splayed over his skin. He moved it up slowly, fingers tripping over the hills and valleys of the tense muscle, to the flat of his sternum and pectorals.

"Dean,” he said softly, with no other intention other than to say his name.

_I like the sound of that._

Dean had heard people say his name a lot, recently, and almost none of it but this had been made of anything good. Muscles jumped beneath Sam's fingers. His chest rose and fell under Sam's hand, scars and skin. His hands found the button of his jeans while Sam's touch still lingered and he thumbed it free, but he was watching Sam's face, fascinated by the emotion there.

Sam's hand moved back down, a little faster this time, coming to where Dean had flicked the button of his pants open. Sam's index finger traced the light trail of hair that ran from Dean's naval and into the darkness of his jeans. Then Sam swallowed, turning his gaze back up to his brother's face, lowering his hand to let Dean help him remove his clothing.

Dean paused there when their eyes met, still marveling over the face he'd known too well to give a second thought, and his stomach quivering from Sam's exploration, and then his eyes drifted shut and he thought about what Sam was letting him do, a vague, distracted abstraction. He focused his purpose and helped Sam out of his undershirt, taking care with the bandages on his shoulder, watching the tight fabric slide back to reveal taut skin. He dropped it with his own shirt, stopped and took off his watch and the bracelets he wore. Then it was just a ring, and the amulet he never took off hanging gold against his chest, and his unfastened pants low on his hips. He climbed down Sam's body and got to work getting Sam's pants off Sam's long legs.

Sam shifted his weight back on to his elbows with a pained hiss, lifting his hips up to aid Dean's efforts. He moved his legs, drawing them up as his brother pulled down his pants and boxers together, and when he came back down to rest against the covers again, he was nude.

Dean winced in sympathy at the sound, but Sam was naked and half-hard and that was always a damn impressive sight, something the new hadn't worn off of, yet, too, and then there was that unexpected promise, the shadows of Sam's thighs. Dean's dick jumped a little at the prospect, the blood rushed hot, and he pushed his jeans down over his hips and got the rest of the way undressed and kicked the pile of discarded denim off the end of the bed, behind him. If he could make it to that place where Sam was the only thing alive for him….

It was one kind of vulnerability to trade oral favors. There were risks involved (like maybe embarrassing yourself by throwing up), but while it took a certain level of trust, it went both ways. Dean had a certain vested interest in not taking advantage of Sam's vulnerable position down on his knees on the carpet when, say, Sam might bite him. It was asking something different for Sam to be on his back, or on his hands and knees, and...Dean needed to think about how he wanted to do this.

He needed to do _something_ before Sam got self conscious, though, so he pushed the thoughts aside and crept up the bed on his hands and his knees and flashed him a smile, wrapped a hand around his cock, and stroked him, thoughtful -- because he wanted him all turned on, after all.

Sam's arousal had softened a little at the flair of pain, but that was reversed by the feeling of Dean's hand on him. Sam's head lolled back, and he arched up into the touch. His hips jerked, and he could feel himself growing harder again.

"Nnn...” He swung his head back up after a moment, looking over his brother's body. "How do you...How do you wanna do this?"

Dean waited until Sam thrust up against his hand again before he withdrew his hand to rest on Sam's knee to let Sam think.

"I can think of a few ways, but a couple of ‘em are right out...” It was the first time he'd had sex with somebody who'd just been shot. And would Sam be letting him have sex if he hadn't just been shot? Dean hoped so. Because he wasn't looking at this as 'comfort sex', even if comfort was involved. He was thinking about it as sex with the guy he was balls out in love with, something life had thrown a full stop on that might've otherwise happened already, happened the night before, working off the tension of a finished job. 

It wouldn't fix anything. Maybe it wouldn't even help anything. But Sam wanted it -- had looked down at him and said he wanted it, no desperate gesture like the time at the cabin. Sam wanted it, and that was reason enough for Dean to do a lot of things. He thought the problem through. He couldn't help but sound a little excited, a little eager, with his dick at attention, the prospect of _sex_ and _Sam_ real close at hand. He tried to play it off cool.

"We could do it like this, if it's not too bad. You wanna be sittin’ up, I bet we could do it like that, too.” He stopped himself to clarify: "You could sit in my lap."

Sam paused to think about Dean's suggestions. He moved a hand to Dean's thighs, his fingers tracing circles against his brother's inner thigh, but not actually touching his erection.

"I...” Sam thought about his words, too raw to take anything less than Dean's complete seriousness right now. There were words that needed to be said regarding this act of sex, and there was really no way to say them that didn't invite teasing or ridicule. "I actually...I prefer it when you're over me."

There was something about the press of weight down on him. It wasn't a sexual thing. Sam knew things like how infants liked to be wrapped very tight when they went to sleep because it made them feel secure. Restriction, they called it. There was something about the weight of Dean's body pushing him down -- it made him feel secure, taken care of. Reminded him, somewhere, of the way it felt when he was small and Dean’d crawl into his crib and almost smother him, and he was safe.

Dean looked at him a few seconds, blinked twice, shrugged his brow and said:

"Well, _al_ right.” Man had a preference. He let his eyes drift down to the juncture of Sam's thighs, watched Sam's tense muscles clench and relax. He shifted on the bed, another shiver running through his body. _Man_ , he wanted that -- all the power in Sam's body underneath him and the heat inside. He blew out a breath and glanced up, raised a brow. "...your shoulder freaks out, we stop. You could roll on your side...might be kind of tight."

Sam shook his head a little.

"I'll be fine. I'll tell you if it hurts,” he promised, shifting himself up on the bed, until his head met the pillow, moving his shoulders so that they were resting against the bed, instead of having to be tensed.

Dean sized him up, felt a little protective thing kick in because Sam had had shit enough the last two days. 

_...eh, like you'd keep your mouth shut._ It was Sam. Sam loved to tell Dean he was doing something wrong. Dean would bet cash Sam could orgasm about it. Maybe it was win/win. (The only thing Sam loved more was when _other_ people told him he was doing something wrong. Oh, _that_ lit him up like at frat boy at Mardi Gras.) He let a smug grin slip through. "Now you go on an' speak up if I'm doin' you right, too."

"I meant my shoulder,” Sam murmured quietly, used to his brother's banter. He lifted a hand towards him, taking Dean's forearm in his grip lightly, pulling him towards himself.

Dean chuckled, a happier kind of laughter than he was usually capable of. He leaned in towards Sam and let his legs slide out under him. He already felt a lot more confident, going down. Choke him up once, shame on Sam. Twice, though.... He was Dean Winchester, and he'd bought three popsicles while Sam and him split up to scout for the ghoul -- two from gas stations and one from one of those ice cream trucks, which made him feel particularly accomplished, and sooner or later he'd have that gag reflex beat.

Sam looked confused as Dean seemed to set himself on something completely different than he expected.

"Dean...?” he asked curiously, though all his emotional involvement seemed muted. He was there, he wanted this, he was with Dean, but the events of the last couple days had made it necessary for him to emotionally withdraw a little, to protect himself.

Dean gave him a _look_. The kind of look that only came around once or twice in most people's lifetime, and fifteen or twenty in others'. The kind of look that said, _'Do I really have to take your dick out of my mouth for this question?'_

Technically, Dean didn't, but he was pretty sure Sam was looking for some kind of full sentence explanation.

"...this is _exactly_ why you need fellatio,” he complained, when his mouth wasn't full. "You're still _thinkin'_."

Sam hissed a little when he felt cold air against his cock, and he slowly, somewhat reluctantly lowered his head back to the pillows, trying to relax himself.

Dean didn’t know exactly what John gave Sam to think about, but he knew Sam would be thinking for days. He needed Sam with him if he meant to escape all it, himself.

Dean pressed a palm against Sam's stomach, caressing and soothing until he felt some of the tension seep out. When Sam's hips twitched with their first impulsive thrusts, he switched to his hand, let himself catch his breath. He had a whole lotta Sam on his hands, and while he was completely capable of having sex with Sam with little to no provocation, neither of them were looking for that.

Sam needed Dean, at that moment. He needed the comfort that only his brother could bring. He needed to feel how much Dean wanted him, how much Dean was unwilling to let him go, for any reason -- even if it came to light that he was, in fact, a demon.

In the end, Sam trusted his big brother. He shut his eyes and breathed in deep, moving slowly with his brother's motions, body tensing and relaxing in waves.

Watching Sam with his head back on the pillow, desire naked on his face, control unraveling under Dean's attention…Dean wasn't sure how he'd gone without. He remembered motel rooms and alleys and the backs of cars and girls’ rooms with stuffed animals lined up on the dresser and Dave Matthews Band posters on the wall and the off-campus apartment Cassie shared with three other women, but nothing he'd done there could make up for a minute watching Sam come undone. It left him shaky and breathless. It felt like belonging. It made him passionate about life long after he'd hollowed out all the usual thrills.

 _Look at you_ , his thoughts whispered, to himself, and there was pride there, pride, always, when Sam let loose. He'd spent a lot of worry on how uptight Sam was, but he was starting to see that it just took certain things, maybe some he hadn't looked for.

Sam heard his brother's thoughts that time, and his eyes came open, and he felt fulfilled by that pride, by the pride Dean had in him. It made his chest, made brittle and tight over the last two days, turn soft and liquid, and it made him roll his head back to avoid looking at his brother, momentarily weak. He felt aroused and needy and exposed. And he couldn’t tell if that was good or bad, anymore

"Dean...talk?” he asked quietly, wanting to hear things from his brother that he knew Dean didn't really want to say. If Dean responded with 'I'm sorry, Sammy, I can't', he would understand. He knew it was a favor, and a lot to ask from his emotionally taciturn brother, but...he asked. There was no harm in asking, right?

Dean struggled with the request, but it wasn't the pitched battle the part of him on Sam's side was sure to lose that it would have been months ago. It was the slow process of undressing, of leaving himself exposed. If it involved a shirt, or some jeans, or a jacket, he could be out of that in seconds flat, but he couldn't remember being naked, really, mentally stripped bare, since those toddler days with his mother when his trust was absolute. He couldn't be naked, but he could still talk.

"Sammy...” He paused on the old nickname, the name he still most identified with _brother_. "...Sam...man, there I go already.” His voice was quiet and rough, contemplative. "...you sure you wanna hear me talk? We've already got a mood.” He let his hand withdraw slowly from Sam's erection, stretched his arm across the bed and found the bottle of lubricant a foot and a half away, his hand still soothing Sam's stomach.

Sam reached down with his left hand, placing it over the one on his stomach, holding his brother's hand intimately.

"I want to hear you.” He licked his lips slowly, watching Dean's motions as he picked up the bottle. "I know it's not...really you're thing. You don't have to. I just..."

Dean sat back between Sam's splayed legs, looked up at Sam, shrugged his broad shoulders. He mused over the possibilities. 

"We both know it's easier for you to talk than get naked...Fair's fair. But much as I'd love to hear _you_ talk nasty...” He smiled, smug, maybe, but as much self-consciousness. He had the vaguest idea what people like Sam wanted to hear in bed, but he didn't think it'd come out any more authentic if he muttered _'I love you's_ than if Sam tried to talk smut -- there'd be the awkward, and then the cataclysm. "There somethin' you wanna...know about me?” he offered, trying.

Sam paused, and shook his head slowly. It wasn't about that.

And it occurred to him that now wasn't the time to bring up the fact that he and Dean couldn't seem to communicate _ever_.

"No...No, it's okay."

Dean felt the stirrings of frustration. He forced it down. He flipped open the bottle cap with his thumb. He looked at Sam hard. He'd been ready to talk, geared up to say _something_ , and he wasn't ready for Sam to cut him off. The words that spilled out weren’t romantic, but they weren’t hurt, or defensive, either.

"It's not even--You know, sometimes I say stuff, and you think I'm takin' a dig at'cha...I can never figure out when you're not gonna wanna hear what I say.” He took a breath, and found more to say. It’d been harder to talk to Sam than usual since the cabin, like Sam expected _more_ or _different_ from what he had. “I'm crass,” he admitted, “but that's the guy you're with. I don't know Latin, I don't read poetry...I don't have a lot of English in me. I got bar lines, and I can swear, and I know the NATO phonetic alphabet. I don't think any of that's real sexy for you.” He said it like an apology, and an admission, and the only words that found their way to his mouth.

Sam shook his head. 

"I don't want poetry. I just...I want my brother.” He shrugged a little, helplessly, watched him flip the bottle open.

And then he realized that he hadn't even done what he was asking of Dean. He always expected his big brother to go first.

"...I love you."

He said it like a realization.

There were reasons, good solid reasons, that Dean warded off this kind of bone-bare, confidential moment. Emotion knotted in his throat, and at the same time, the bottle of lube fell through his fingers. He hissed through his teeth about the latter, and he tried to shake off the former, but it stuck. The terror, though, that didn't come. He looked at Sam a minute, and then he picked up the lube and shut the cap and he wasn't sure he could really understand _why_. 

Not why there was lube, clear and wet, on the comforter, because...obviously.

"...you know we could...actually...be _under_ the sheets sometime...and turn off some lights,” he muttered, glanced towards the bathroom light, in particular, which was on, and bright. He looked at Sam. It wasn't easy to take. He came built in with that inherent feeling of unworthiness, that feeling that doing everything he did for Sam or for John wasn't even enough. When Sam said _'I love you'_ and it was like he used to say it, when Sam kissed goodnight before bed, seven years old in pajamas, it was one thing. When Sam said _'I love you'_ , and he meant _'I'm as crazy for you as you are for me'_ , that Dean didn't really understand. He didn't understand it, but he heard it, and he said, finally, _Sammy_ , and it was under his breath, out loud, but echoed through him in his mind.

He was quiet a long time.

"...in the truck.” He started off slow, saw Sam register it in his eyes, and he spoke a little firmer. "In the truck, I said...Yeah...I do. Like stupid.'"

Sam looked up at his brother, and went still.

It wasn't much. It was small, and still filled with so much less than hope, but it was there, and it was honest.

He reached up, pulling Dean's head down to him, kissing him slow.

"...like stupid,” he murmured against his brother's lips, in agreement.

Lips met and parted, and their hands appreciated. Dean didn't forget about getting action, didn't even _almost_ forget about getting action, but he placed it all firmly on the side of giving Sam what Sam wanted, making Sam feel good, wanting Sam to _know_ he meant it...Dean kissed him deep and didn't rush it.

When they moved apart, Dean set the bottle of lube down and crawled off the bed, flipped off light switches until there was only the lamp beside the bed, shining yellow. He liked that better. It gave the whole thing an air of legitimate, not just screwing around. It gave him time to come to terms with the step they'd taken, past that point of no return, past the event horizon of the whole 'long-term relationship' deal. It was a place he'd never made it to, before. It excited him and it scared him and he _could_ have run away from it, but he hadn't; he didn't; he came back to Sam.

Sam watched him with the same eyes that had watched Dean when he was an infant -- open and inquisitive, observant to the point of being creepy, eyes that followed every movement, took in everything around them, took in Dean and held him like they were certain that big brother would never leave.

It was that level of possessive that Sam had always expressed but never before reciprocated. He'd always behaved like Dean was unequivocally his, but he'd never before offered himself in return.

He was willing to go there now. Now that there wasn’t anything left to have.

Sam shifted back down onto his back as Dean approached the bed, and the darkness of the room made everything seem smaller and more intimate.

Dean felt Sam's eyes on him, taking in everything. He was proud of his body; he wasn't shy. He let his hands touch his erection as he climbed back onto the bed, got his mind back where it needed to be, and then he crawled back in between Sam's legs. He wet his lips and looked at Sam thoughtful. His gaze traveled down, again, and the furnace in his belly spit a little fire. He eased Sam's legs up, eased them open, and he picked up the bottle one more time.

Sam breathed slow -- a forced motion -- as he watched Dean pick up the bottle, watching his brother's eyes dart to the space between his legs, seeing the flare of desire there. Sam was happy to indulge in it, hide himself in it, until the entire world consisted of what was lit by the bedside lamp, and there were no fathers, no demons, no fires and old ghosts that wouldn't leave -- no reality but Dean and the spreading of his own thighs, slow and purposeful.

Dean pressed the lube onto his fingers, slippery and cool, rubbed his fingers together until it heated up a little. There were things that could go wrong with the whole experience, still, but Dean figured he'd deal with those things when he came to them, because he'd been patient awhile. He let his middle finger slip into the crevice of Sam’s backside, caress over the whorl of skin he was looking for. 

Sam sucked in a breath when he saw Dean's hand move between his thighs, something about the sight making his lungs drag the air in. Surprisingly, it was that sight, more than the sensation, that drew reaction from him. 

For a few minutes, that was it, Dean's finger massaging the slick stuff against Sam's heated skin and Dean watching him get used to it.

Sam’s hips were angled oddly to allow the motion, and he could feel the tips of Dean's finger. The warm, wet press of skin to that part of himself was a completely new sensation.

Dean savored the sound of Sam's breath rushing in, Sam’s Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"Pass me a pillow,” he said, a second or two later.

Sam looked a little baffled, but complied.

Dean took it from him and slid his hand under the curve of Sam’s lower back, heavy with hard muscle, same side as his injury. _Weight on your good shoulder_ , he prompted, and then he helped him raise his hips, tugged the pillow under him -- propped him up. He liked that angle better, and he smiled, satisfied with himself.

Sam leaned back onto his left shoulder with a grimace, lifting himself up only to come back down on the pillow. He felt a little silly, with all this preparation.

"Go ahead,” he said, giving Dean his permission to penetrate him.

"Man, I need more lube than _that_.” Dean laughed under his breath, not at Sam, but eager, real pleased to hear Sam wanted to get down to it. He poured the lube into his palm, felt his hand closing on his own erection, stroked himself, exhaling, and his eyes drooped shut. He could’ve spent awhile getting to know that new part of Sam with his fingers, maybe his mouth, but he didn't want Sam getting bitchy, and lube dried out. 

He shifted forward, up close to Sam's hips, and he leaned over him, rested his hand on the mattress along Sam's waist and shifted his weight, looking down. His stomach doubled up. He waited until he saw Sam relax a little more, all those ridges under Sam's skin easing, and he steadied himself with his hand and he pressed against him, and more firm, until he felt himself slide inside. His breath hitched. He shut his eyes. He wanted to thrust in, needed that total encompassment he'd missed for months, but he didn't, kneeled there breathing through his mouth and slowly raise his eyes to Sam with his cock saying _Oh, yeah_ and his thoughts flickering _Sammy_.

Sam was braced against the bed, his eyes shut as Dean slid into him. The motion was smooth, thanks to the preparation, without friction, but it was still a strange sensation, and he felt stretched full. His pelvis felt tight with the tension, and while his muscles clenched instinctively, it didn't hurt all that much, or, not as much as he'd been led to believe.

But maybe the bullet hole in his shoulder was altering his perspective.

His hands fisted in the sheets, and he wondered if this was how women felt -- somewhat invaded, intimately close but incredibly vulnerable. Sam was aware that if Dean began to thrust too hard or too fast, there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it. He knew his brother wouldn't, he trusted Dean implicitly. But there were aspects to this side of a sexual relationship that Sam had never thought about, and he remembered the night that Jess came crying to him because the guy she'd slept with hadn't called her. He'd never stopped to realize just how sharp a cut that could be, with the way the recesses of his body had been given willingly, and the way that he couldn't stand that without the stability and warmth of the relationship he shared with his sibling.

In all honesty, there was probably no man in the world Sam would allow to have that piece of him, take that vulnerability, than his brother. That spoke volumes about the perversity of their bond, but when everything was going to hell, he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore.

Dean sank in slow, and it was like dipping into molten lead. His body shuddered and his thoughts blanked. He had no idea why people loved to be underneath him, but it was the intense sensation, the thought-stealing ecstasy, that _Dean_ was crazy for. It went on and on, his knees slipping back and more weight against his arm, until his body was engulfed, his hips brushing Sam's. He was over Sam, eyes clenched, disbelief written over his face and the amulet dangling between. He blinked down at him, only half made sense of what he saw, at first. He shook his head, and the wordless sensation rolling off him was _Thank you_. 

Sam's arms lifted finally, to either of Dean's shoulders, his legs pushed up against his brother's sides out of necessity. It felt like his entire body was wrapped around Dean.

He could feel his brother's gratitude, and felt himself warm to that. 

Dean's hips were pressed to his backside, warm, and their bodies tight. Sam felt his internal muscles clench and relax as he tried to force them to obey him.

Dean waited until the little spasms calmed down, Sam flinching around him, around that one thick organ, but it felt like every inch of him. The universe lurched when he moved. Emotion erupted in his chest, sentimental and unchecked. His Sammy, fucking gorgeous, skin flushed, hair a mess, and _his_ and _his_ and _his_. He rubbed the lube on his palm of against his thigh and reached down to touch Sam's cheek, faint tremors in his wrist, and he rolled his hips real slow, three times.

"...good...?” There was more of a sentence there, somewhere, _You good?_ , but his voice was as unsteady as his hand. It meant a lot. It meant almost too much. Self-conscious anxiety ran chill in his chest, because he was wrapped up in his little brother and he needed Sam to like that. His face was open and seeking.

"Yeah...yeah, it's good, Dean,” he spoke quietly, his eyes flickering open again when he said his brother's name. He looked up at Dean, finding himself taken away by the openness of his brother's expression. He'd never seen anything like that on his sibling's face. 

He swallowed slow and hard. 

"It's good.” He never thought he'd own Dean so thoroughly, and despite the fact that he was on his back, and Dean's weight was pressing him down against the mattress (and there was a sickness in how good that felt, in how it reminded him of things that were thoroughly nonsexual, reminded him of their childhood), he felt powerful.

Dean's anxiety dissolved into relief and his hips twitched, seeking release. He indulged them, rocking into motion. He had to shut his eyes, couldn't see, his attention in the friction between their skin, with Sam's big hands on the back of his neck and Sam's legs brushing his sides and his dick hard and wet and the heat incredible and beneath it all the growing sense of _connection_. He could have sex, involve himself physically without getting too emotionally involved, but this wasn't that -- deeply possessed and deeply consumed.

Sam had pushed himself into every corner of Dean's life, taken everything Dean had given him. 

He wanted to pull Dean down to him, align their bodies completely, but that would require bending that would mess up his shoulder pretty bad. He ignored that impulse. It wasn't too difficult to ignore anything at the moment, with Dean's cock driving steadily up into him and out again. It felt insane. It felt good, but in such a strange way, something that Sam'd never experienced before. His body was throbbing in time with Dean's.

Dean groaned, long and low, it ended in a hiccupped breath as his lungs begged air and he obliged them. His eyes drifted open again as the immediate intensity faded to a steady burn, the sensation still incredible, still spilling out through his abdomen and through his thighs. He watched Sam's face, watched for the little twitches and winces and was spectacularly aware of his own responsibility for every nuanced reaction. He could feel the thrust of his hips becoming more instinctual, but their bodies were working out the rhythm of the thing, Sam's hips giving how they needed to. 

"Sammy,” he murmured; there was still gratitude there. If he heard the name he called him, he couldn't distinguish it from Sam, but there was love there, a kind of blown-away admiration, and it was in his mind, like the beginning of a thought he couldn't parse: _Sammy...Sammy..._ "...shit,” he whispered, as his thoughts escaped, but even that was affectionate.

Somehow the nickname became different in this context. Not a childish nickname, but a lover’s nickname, and the warmth that Sam secretly loved in it moved over into that context, deep and sick and embedded in his skin, in every part of him that Dean had made and molded.

Sam felt Dean in him, around him, all over him. Running in his veins, even, the blood they shared and the bones formed in the same womb, the coarse skin that felt the same, and scent of sweat and sex that was in that blood, in that flesh.

It was euphoric. Sam could feel the way it pulsed in him, the way he could read every emotion, every thought coming off Dean, and knowing he could stop it if he really wanted but _god_ he didn't want to. 

Dean was thick and hard inside his body, and with each rocking thrust Sam arched a little more, curling over underneath Dean's weight. Each thrust made his own cock throb, and his thighs tightened around his brother's body.

Dean glutted on the fulfillment of their bodies acting as one, drew it out until he started to _feel_ the friction and he closed his hand around Sam's dick and let the power behind their hips push Sam up against it. He had the fierce, carnal urge to leave himself in the depth of Sam's body, and no desire to stumble over any more distractions. His rapacity twined with devotion and plunged through Sam's mind, he took a last look at his brother panting beneath him and then let the moment overtake him.

Dean was making needy noises in his throat, the odd small sound punctuating a shaky breath, but only Sam heard the guttural cry that escaped when his body thrust its last, eager demands and all his ardor and adulation quaked through him like thunder, robbed his mind empty and rolled on through Sam.

Sam's hands fled to the headboard through the last couple of thrusts, holding himself firm as he pushed himself desperately up against Dean's hand. Then he was sure he felt a flood of warmth inside of him, and god that was strange, and powerfully intimate, and the possessive part of him thought perversely 'now I have all of him'.

Dean voice was intense in his ears, and he gasped a little, letting out a long moan as his brother's hand worked over him. He jerked up needily, and eventually spilled his seed against his lover's stomach.

Dean recognized that his arm ached as his thoughts began to clear. _Probably not as much as Sam's._ His hips were still pushing their last, few twitches and the exhaustion of his long day rolled in to remind him how low his reserves were. It didn't get in the way. He felt _awesome_. He felt different, too, full and satisfied beyond anything he associated with sex. He knew sex felt great for a minute and didn't change anything, but it still took him a few seconds to place the residual high to Sam solidifying things, verbally...hell, _romantically_ \-- the kind of admission Dean had always wanted to hear from somebody with a desperation so scary he could no more look at it than Sam could the ghost behind his shoulder. It had vanished, he recognized the absence, and even if they were fucking in the ruins of their broken life, for that moment, Dean felt so damn _good_.

He withdrew slow from the heat of Sam's body and let himself collapse beside him, on Sam's good side, and he was the one who edged up closer, laid helplessly bare and a little afraid of that.

Sam breathed hard, letting out a grunt as Dean pulled out of his body, and he lowered his legs, feeling his hips ache a little with residual soreness as his thighs relaxed against the bed spread.

He just breathed in air for a moment, laying there with the heat of his brother's naked body next to him. He could roll on to his side though, since Dean was to his left, and he did so, leaning in to kiss him breathlessly.

Dean's kisses came slow, and a little sloppy. Even if he wanted to linger in the moment, his body was heavy and sinking towards sleep.

"Covers,” Sam muttered sleepily, and he somehow managed to pull the pillow out from under him, toss it to the side and struggle one-armed with the covers, pulling them up around their shoulders. He tucked his bad arm around Dean gingerly, and lay back on the other one. He kissed his brother's chin lightly.

Dean's attempt at some sort of coherent response came out sounding like _Mnngh_. It could have been a sentimental goodnight, but it was coming from Dean the odds were against it. Sam at least had the option of pretending it was whatever he wanted. 

Entangled with Sam, content, and, impossibly, _loved_ , Dean was also out like a rock.

\----

The morning dawned grey from the last days rain, but dry, at least, this time. The light coming in through their curtains was pale and made the whole room look washed out.

The single, queen sized bed was still warm, still smelled of sex. Dean woke to noises -- a shuffling, the pad of footsteps, and the rustle of cloth.

He cracked an eye, grumbling because a part of him couldn't believe it still looked something like _morning_. He could've slept into the afternoon, and he felt like he needed it -- a day off, or something. Except for the part where he was feeling comfortably _laid_ , he couldn't pretend hard enough that the last two days hadn't happened. (He couldn’t pretend at all, the stress and the pain creeping into his memory.)

Dean shifted and found the other side of the bed curiously empty. Sam passed in front of his vision suddenly, walking over to the table in the corner. He had clothes in his hands, and he pushed them messily into his bag.

Ice water rushed into the lingering warmth in Dean's chest and he screwed up his brow. The monstrous spectre of abandonment uncoiled from deep in his entrails with its hoarse, terrible whisper. Dean's hands knotted white-knuckled in the low-threadcount sheets and he gaped disbelieving at Sam.

"Were you gonna wake me _up_?"

Sam looked up, looking over at Dean, surprised he was awake.

"Yeah, I mean...When it was time to go--...” He froze as he suddenly realized what Dean was thinking, and his eyes widened. He turned to face the bed, holding up both his hands. "No. _No_. It's not that. God, it's not that, Dean.” He gestured over to the desk, where Dean’s bag sat, full and zipped, with a small stack of folded clothing beside it. "I packed your bag, too. I want...I want to leave. You and me, together."

Dean lay there looking at him with his face screwed up, looking like someone had tried to shove him on an airplane and feeling like an idiot. He finally crumpled, rolling his eyes, slumping against the pillow, cranky with himself, completely fucking mortified. _Of course_ Sam wasn't leaving him with John, but the fear, unleashed, didn't stop for reason, rampaging through Dean's metropolis.

The mattress shifted a little and then Sam was crawling up, knees to one side of Dean, but putting an arm on either side of his brother's head.

"...didn't mean to scare you.” He could feel the panic in his brother's mind, a distant thought in that space in his head he was beginning to recognize as _Other_ , and he leaned down to kiss the same point of Dean's jaw as he'd kissed the night before.

Sam's touch and his lips sent the fear squirming off where it hid, and Dean was left with the battered remnants of his pride. 

"Dude. If you ever tell _anybody_ I--"

Sam pressed his lips firmly to Dean's because it was the fastest way of shutting the bravado off.

"...dumbass,” he muttered when he pulled back. "I'm not going to tell people your deepest fears. Those are things that only I'm allowed to know."

"Oh, yeah? Well...” Dean stumbled at arguing the point. " _Good_.” 

So there.

"So...come with me?” Sam asked, a little look of empty hope to him.

Dean was quieter when he spoke.

"...let's hit the road before Dad gets the nerve to come down here."

Sam nodded, moving off his brother and off the bed. He stood up, grabbing the pile of folded clean clothing he'd set beside the bag for Dean and handed it to the other man. Sam pulled on his shoes while Dean dressed, taking both their bags out to the car.

Dean followed him out two minutes later, leaving John's extra key on the bed.

They drove north and didn’t talk.


	15. Chapter 15

They had found a motel up in northern Maine, where the heat wasn't too bad. The drive had remained almost silent. Despite everything that had happened, there wasn't much to say.

Sam felt a soreness between his hips that was unfamiliar to him. Every step served to remind him of the line he'd crossed with his brother, and the looming implications of his father's words on that subject. Every even step made him feel warm with the memory; every odd one reminded him of the crimes inherent in their relationship.

He stayed near the window of their motel room, and he watched the traffic. 

The first week was quiet, and Sam sat in a chair by the window, leaning his elbow against the sill with his chin in his hand. Sometimes he took out the little slip of paper he kept in his wallet, in the back pocket of his pants. It had three names on it: Mary Winchester, Jessica Lee Moore, Susan Coechiro. The three people who had died for him.

Dean didn't know what he had expected. If he'd expected things to change in their relationship once they crossed that final, sexual line, he didn't expect them to change like they had. Sam sat by the window, looking out at the parking lot, the trees, the road beyond, across the road -- _whatever_ it was Sam was looking at, and Dean sat on the bed, and watched him sometimes, and watched the television, and worked on a big bag of peanut M &M's, and, a day or two later, on a bag of Hershey's Kissables, and so on, and brewed coffee in the cheap machine on the bathroom counter, and went out sometimes and bought them fast food, came back with a paper and scanned the local news and read the obits.

On the seventh day, they'd be quiet since breakfast, and Dean’s voice was jarring in the stillness.

"Looks like there might be something down in West Grand Lake. Place called Jumbo Landing. We could go check it out."

Sam raised his head, looking back at his brother, his expression both curious and blank, as if Dean was speaking some strange foreign language that Sam was trying to decipher.

"...you mean like a hunt?"

"Like a hunt. That whole _thing_ we do. The guns...and the salt?"

Sam turned to look back out the window.

"You can go, if you want."

Dean folded the newspaper, pages crinkling, and tossed it to the side.

"Oh, right. I forgot Ashton Moschella was buyin' you a free hotel room because that time you watched his dogs when he went to...where was it, again? _Ibiza_ , yeah, to _get hitched_." He gestured broadly -- the sweeping, fictitious life of Ashton Moschella.

"Dean," Sam sighed. "I can--..." There was no real answer to that. All of the fake credit cards he had were Dean's, and Dean was the one who hustled cash. Sam was pretty much out of luck. "Look, I just don't want to go."

"I bet--" Dean stopped and grabbed the paper; rustled through the pages; enunciated the name: "-- _Mackenzie Roche_ didn't wanna end up a bloated floater on her summer vacation." He threw the paper off the bed, this time and sunk back against the pillows, groping for something to snack on. "I mean, what the hell are you lookin’ at out there, anyway?"

"The McDonalds across the street," Sam responded testily. "Think they hire the infernal?"

"The whu-- Is that what this is about?" Dean groaned, but his hand found some Swedish Fish in their bag on the bed and he pushed one between his lips. "I bet they don't sit on their asses in _Hell_ all day. And, if you're keepin' count, that puts _us_ another week behind 'em."

"'Is that what this is about'?" Sam turned to stare at him incredulously. " Yeah Dean, _that’s_ what this is about! What else would it be? You think I'm _sulking_? You say that like I'm acting _weird_ for someone who just found out he's not the person he thought he was for his _entire life_!" The run on sentence spilled out of him in one breath. He sounded hysterical, or crazy. 

"I think you're actin' weird for _Sam Winchester_ ," Dean snapped back. "I gotta be the one to remind you what that bastard did to your woman? What he's gonna do to _me_ , or Dad, if he catches up with us and we've been sittin' here with our thumbs up our butts _starin' at a McDonalds_? Great plan, Sammy. Brilliant. I'm pretty sure those golden arches--..."

" _Don't talk about her like that!_ " Sam roared with a sudden passion, interrupting Dean, standing up and whirling around in one motion. His hand flung out and hit the table. While it was surely _possible_ that what happened next was caused by some obscure and rarely invoked law of physics, it was doubtful that that was all that caused the table to fly away from Sam's hand and shatter against the wall.

Dean jerked at the crash, scattering the red licorice fish across the bed, fear spiking through him -- that honed survival instinct. He could suddenly hear the pounding of his heart.

He stared at his little brother, disbelief on his face. 

Sam face screwed up into some bizarre expression, almost comical, except it wasn't, at all. He hunched down slow, in a crouch, and hid his face in his broad hands.

"...don't look at me like that."

Dean swung his legs off the bed, pressed his palms down on the mattress, but didn't get up, leaning forward, letting the bass in his blood quiet.

"Look at you like what? Like you threw a table?" He shrugged, though Sam couldn't see it. "That's the face you get when you throw a table." He tried to clarify the point. "That's how bar fights start."

"God, just--..." Sam shook his head, and dug his nails into his scalp. "Just _shut up_."

Dean sat back slowly, and he stayed quiet.

Sam sank back, until he sort of fell back on his ass, in a way that was neither coordinated nor uncoordinated.

He didn't lift his head.

Dean looked off, towards the little chewy fish spilled over the bed, his thoughts complaining, _God damn it_.

Sam laughed and shook his head.

"It's just too big, you know?" Sam said, and went quiet again for awhile. "This huge, fucking... _thing_ ," he finally spat out inarticulately. "Just...fucking...There's this whole _line_ that's just leading up to...something. Means something. Has some kind of...It _means_ something. All these things. All these..." He moved his hands down his face slowly, until they dropped to the floor between his legs. "There isn't anything. Not one single piece that's not all...tied up. Part of this. I keep trying to...wrap my mind around it, like I could see some kind of... _sense_ , but it's just too big. But I _have_ to make it make sense. It has to _fit_ somehow or how can I--...There's all these things, and they _mean_ something but I can't see it."

Dean felt a little useless. More than a little. Sam had been working on the problem. Dean had sat on his ass. It wasn't that he didn't try to make connections in his head. For a regular job, for hunting a regular, run of the mill creep, he could jigsaw facts together until he got a picture he could act on. Demons, though. He'd fought more of them than the average hunter, now, and he still didn't get them.

"I--...Sorry." He straightened his voice. "I'm sorry."

Sam finally looked up at him, slowly. He shifted back to being just Sam again, and he wore the same expression he had for the last week.

"You didn't do anything...not really." The younger of them shrugged a little, helplessly. He leaned back against the wall with a sigh. "No one did...Be easier if someone had."

\----

_"We're not ditchin' my car because of some freak storm!"_

_The snow had fallen for three days. The plows didn't come as far backcountry as the Winchesters drove. The Sierra step side was a big truck, and John always carried snow chains. The Impala was buried._

_"How_ else _are we supposed to get back to town?" Sam asked quietly, in that sullen tone he'd picked up recently. The one that said, 'I'm objecting and being a pain in the ass, but I know no one's going to listen to me, so I'll mutter.' A pleasant side effect of being fourteen._

_Dean shrugged, not roused from his dismissive slouch against the shanty's plank wall, remembering he didn't have to have the conversation._

_"It's not up to you, anyway, kiddo."_

_Sam rolled his eyes at his brother._

_John was leaned against the door frame of the front entrance, looking out at the heavy white of the snow field, extending over the flat North Dakota ground._

_"Boys," he said faintly, not needing to say any more to get them to quiet._

_Sam rolled his eyes again, this time so wide it looked like he was going to pass out on the teenage angst, but he listened to his father. Fourteen was the year he began to question things, but it would be two years until he began to actively fight John._

_Dean scoffed at Sam's attitude dug his boots in against the boards, looking untouchable and suggesting more helpfully than Sam:_

_"Maybe if the truck flattens me a road, I can bring the Impala behind it."_

_"Boys," John said with a sigh. "Maybe you wanna ask me what we're doing next, before you start making plans?" He raised an eyebrow at the two of them. "There's no need to get back to town. We've done our job. We have rations. Might as well wait around a couple of days for the snow to melt."_

_Dean looked skeptically at his little brother._ 'Oh great. With _you_ ,' _written all over his face. He was no bigger a fan of Sam's attitude than their father, but he hadn't decided what to do about it, yet._

_Sam's face turned red, pretty pissed at that look. It hit him in his gut, in all the places that he still wanted his big brother's pride and affection._

_"...I'll be inside," he muttered, moving indoors._

_"Give him time," John grunted to Dean. "You weren't exactly the most pleasant person to be around at fourteen."_

_Dean grunted back noncommittally._

_Sam got out one of the books he carried and let the world tune out. He could sit for hours that way, if the older Winchesters let him. It wasn’t long before he was in a simpler world of arguments about hard facts._

_Sam looked up from his book when he heard something impact the wall. He blinked a couple of times, then vaulted out of the chair, almost tripping on long legs he still wasn't quite accustomed to, yet._

_He had no idea what'd happened, but sudden noises and Winchesters didn't go well together._

_A snowball impacted Sam's sternum with a solid thunk, winding him with the force. John glanced back at him over his shoulder, his body leaning to the right. He smirked slow at his son._

_"Hey, Sammy."_

_"...hey, Dad," Sam coughed a little and brushed the snow off his chest._

_A second snowball exploded against Sam's jacket in a spray of white._

_"Ah!" Sam lifted his arms to guard his face automatically. "Dean!" he yelled, indignantly._

_"Heads up there, Sammy!"_

_"C'mon, son. S'just snow." John reached back, giving Sam a good shove towards the edge of the porch._

_"Dad!" Sam complained at their ganging up. He always felt like this. Like Dean and their dad were this perfect little team, and he was just the awkward follow up that constantly got in their way or needed to be looked after._

_Dean laughed and held his arms out above the snow, standing waist deep out in the field._

_"Come on, short stuff. Take your best shot."_

_Dean couldn't dodge cleverly like John did, avoiding snow as if it barely took effort. It'd take some doing to move at all._

_Sam looked disgruntled._

_"I just wanted to_ read _..." he muttered under his breath. But there was little hope of that now. He reached down and packed the snow into a ball, twisted his arm back, and let fly._

 _A shock of chill and wet slammed against Dean’s face. He shook his head, sucking air in through his mouth because with his nose stinging like a_ bitch _. He reached up to pinch it between his thumb in his index finger, waiting for the numb to warm up._

 _"Good one, Luke. I can_ feel _your anger."_

_Sam dashed off the porch, into the snow, while Dean was distracted with wiping the snow off, and jumped, tackling his brother into the feet of soft white._

_He was still a few inches shorter than Dean, and considerably lighter in muscle. He wasn't all that much an undue pressure on his brother, but Dean's usual capacity for kicking Sam's ass was inhibited by the sinking way he floundered in the embankment._

_Somewhere in their fighting, rolling and shoving snow down each other's shirts, Sam actually laughed. He was distracted from his little routine long enough to actually enjoy himself, though he'd deny it later._

_When they were exhausted, and had rolled clear across the long field in front of the shack, and lay there panting in the snow, hot for all the cold around them, Sam had his head against his brother's shoulder. He could hear loudly the sped up thump of Dean's heart, and it reminded him of when he was small. He took a small moment of comfort, sucking in the frozen air to his bitten lungs before it was business as usual again._

\----

The second week was lonely. Sam left after the incident with the table. He left for two days and came back smelling like the cool night air of Maine and body odor. He didn't look like he had slept anywhere with a roof, if he had slept at all.

When he walked into their room he took his shirt and hoodie off and lay down on the bed without saying anything.

Dean turned off the television.

The first night, he'd figured Sam would be back by morning. The second night, he'd been ready to yell. (Sam _knew_ how he felt about people disappearing.) After more than seventy-two hours with Sam gone, Dean's anger had sloughed off and he was glad to feel the weight of his body on the bed. He looked over at him, and he reached out to touch his hair.

Sam shut his eyes slowly when Dean's fingers stroked his hair. For a while, he just lay there. Eventually he rolled over, until he was facing Dean, and the room was warm and dark.

After another moment passed, Sam shifted closer to Dean, not caring if he was dirty or smelled bad -- just pulled his brother until he was half on top of him, and he felt that press of weight down against his chest, and Sam shut his eyes tightly.

Dean lay against him, breathing quietly, but he didn’t feel any closer to his brother than he had when Sam was gone. Then his lips were on Sam's acrid skin, searching, a fist gripping Sam's damp undershirt.

Sam lay there, unmoving.

Dean hung close to his brother's bulky frame. His mouth pleaded against Sam's unresponsive body. The odor was repugnant and Dean's mouth brackish. His lips sucked at Sam's jaw, Sam's stubble abrasive.

Sam shut his eyes, feeling more the presence of his brother's body than the motions. He knew Dean's lips were on his skin, he knew what Dean wanted.

He had no idea what he wanted.

He let Dean strip him, moving with him cooperatively, but not really making any moves of his own. When Dean drew back to remove his own clothing, Sam rolled over on to his stomach, pushing himself up to his knees and elbows.

The way Sam's body stretched and moved, the expanse of Sam's back, the long backs of his thighs, his hair hanging heavy around his face, his strong forearms braced on the bed, the thin hairs on his forearms and the veins Dean's eyes traced down the back of his hands.... Dean stripped his clothes off, queasy and hard, because it wasn't what he wanted, but he wanted it, anyway, and he reached over the side of the bed and dug out the lube. He kissed the small of Sam's back, climbed up on his hips. He wondered how bad Sam's arm still hurt, because Sam was still hurt. He rubbed his brother's side, and he looked for anything that told him Sam wanted this.

Sam could feel Dean's lips on the small of his back, could feel the way his brother's hand eased over him with such care.

He knew, all through his body, that his brother loved him.

But it was like his skin couldn't soak it up. Like it couldn't penetrate him, get to his heart, or his stomach, or his throat. All he felt was tired.

Dean's gaze fell to Sam's hips, cast white in light spilling in from the street, to his erection thickening against Sam's thigh, every heartbeat a little stiffer. Sam looked real tempting with his ass in the air, offering sex for the taking. Dean didn't care that Sam stank like stale summer sweat, that the skin under his fingers was greasy. He wanted to bone. Wanted to freak. He wanted another warm body to bury the loneliness aching sick inside.

He didn't want to rape his little brother.

"...Sam...just...say you want this...."

"...it's fine, Dean."

Dean opened the lube, but Sam still seemed far away.

Dean was hip deep inside Sam, edging closer to coming with every shuddering thrust, when his hand fumbled down to search for Sam's cock. Sam slapped at his hand and his wrist and Dean gritted his teeth and half-realized and feared, their bodies still colliding together. The apprehension that raced with Dean's pounding pulse intensified to disgust when his hand groped out Sam's flaccid dick. He cursed, fell back ungainly on the bed, shoved Sam in anger and wished to god he wasn't hard. His voice tore rough from his throat.

"--the fuck is _wrong_ with you!?"

Sam hissed when Dean jerked out of him, the sudden motion hurting. He grit his teeth at Dean's question. At the fact that Dean wanted him to say something to him. And he had no words. 

\--no more words than he'd had two days ago, found no words in his two days of searching, found no words in their bed, in sex. There was nothing to say now, either.

He turned back over, sitting on the covers, and said nothing.

A minute late, when Dean was sure there were no answers in his brother's shadowed face, the bathroom door slammed, and he turned the shower on cold and sat underneath it, too shocked and too shocked and repulsed to know what else to feel and the smell of Sam's body clinging to him.

Sam felt dirty. He felt disgusting all over, inside and out. Not because of the sex. He knew Dean thought that he was unwilling, some shit like that, but that wasn't it. He'd been perfectly willing. He just hadn't cared.

It made him feel dirty that he wanted to hurt his brother. He wanted to see his brother hurting as much as he was hurting. He was willing to let his brother suffer just so he could lash out at someone.

He needed a shower. 

Dean left for Jumbo Landing the next morning.

He went. He saw. He arrived in time to hear about the police dragging out another body two landings down. He scouted the area, disturbed a couple crime scenes, and three days later pistol whipped a twenty-something white boy from Florida until he lay twitching on the lakeshore bleeding into the water and wiped his own bloody nose and tried to calm down the shrieking teenager all knees and elbows and freckles further up the shore. Sometimes a rash of lakeside deaths were pretty normal, after all, in a Jason Voorhees, _Friday the 13th_ before the sixth movie's zombie twist, kind of way.

\----

_Sam was seven and Dean eleven when their Dad left them with Pastor Jim for what Sam felt like was the billionth time. They almost always stayed at Jim’s church when John hunted around the Great Lakes, or in the Breadbasket._

_Sam didn't mind. Jim Murphy was Sam's favorite of his dad's friends. The others ranged from cordially distant to downright disdainful of children, but Pastor Jim did stuff like leave candy for them. He also made them pray, which they didn't cotton to, but it was fine. Dean'd always do stuff like pinch him under the table while the Pastor's eyes were closed and saying grace, which always made Sam have to bite his tongue to keep from laughing._

_They'd been playing in the sanctuary all day, which was okay when it was empty, but they'd have to go quiet when people came in for confessional. Eventually the Pastor came out and told them it was time to get ready for bed, and the two boys raced one another to get back to the living quarters._

_With some six or seven inches on Sam, Dean sped ahead of him with ease. At one point Dean rounded a bend down a hallway and disappeared from Sam's sight._

_"Wait!" the younger boy shrieked, a jolt of panic going through him the moment he couldn't see his brother._

_Dean reappeared a few seconds later, his hands tucked in his jean pockets, doing his best to look stern with his spooked younger brother._

_"Hurry_ up _, Sammy," he chided, but he held out his hand when Sam caught up._

_Sam grabbed it the moment he was within reach and stopped, out of breath. Their hands hung between them, and they began to walk down the hallway towards the bathroom._

_Dean led Sam into the bathroom and got out Sam’s toothbrush. He uncapped the toothpaste and squirted him a line and passed the brush on to the littler Winchester. Sometimes, Sam still got the blue-green paste places other than the brush._

_Sam took the brush from him, sticking it in his mouth with the gusto of most small kids. He always ended up eating more toothpaste than brushing his teeth, but that was okay. He watched his big brother as always, taking his cues from him._

_Dean squirted a fine line on his own toothbrush, and scrubbed his teeth left to right, first on the top and then on the bottom, aware he was under scrutiny, aware, too, of his comparative excellence. He spit dead center in the drain and washed his brush under the faucet, leaned up on his toes to drink some tap water to rinse and spit again. He dropped his brush in their cup and got Sam's stepstool from by the wall._

_Sam stepped up on it, still pretty short for his age. He mimicked Dean's movements and timing, without the coordination of the older child. When he was finished he washed and dried his hands and got off the stepstool. He fit his hand comfortably back into his brother's._

_Dean led the way to the bedroom Pastor Jim had set aside for guests, two single beds and a table and some drawers. Sometimes, other hunters showed up at the church doors looking for a place to heal up or leave their own wards. Pastor Jim had never made the Winchesters share it with anybody, yet. The other week a skinny man with scars on his face and a crippled left hand had been sleeping in the living room. Dean had asked him if the man needed a bed, and Jim had told him to lock the door at night._

_Sam moved to the bag their Dad had left for them, digging out both pairs of pajamas, turning to hand the large pair to his brother._

_Sam was going through a shy phase. He would duck down behind one of the sides of the bed and wriggle around to get into his clothes._

_Dean got changed and tugged down the covers on Sam's bed. When Sammy was dressed, Dean stepped aside and watched him scramble into it, grinning at the way he had to climb. He offered the smile to his brother as Sam got settled in…and then he turned his back to go turn his own bed down._

_Sam settled down into his bed, looking up at Dean--_

_Only to see Dean turn around and move to his own bed._

_"Deeean...!" he complained, sitting up suddenly._

_Dean laughed and about-faced, closing the two steps between them, reaching out and leaning in._

_"Stop!" Sam held out his hand in the 'halt' motion. He looked very serious for a moment, then smiled._

_"Here." He pointed to a very specific spot on his cheek._

_Dean screwed up his brow and opened his mouth-- thought better about it, rolled his eyes, and pressed his lips to that spot on Sam's skin._

_"Now, here." Sam pointed to the exact same point on his other cheek._

_Dean groaned and leaned a little further in to kiss Sammy on that spot, too._

_"Aaand here." Sam pointed to the center of his forehead._

_"You're_ not cute _, booger breath," Dean griped -- he kissed Sam in the middle of his forehead, anyway._

_Sam grinned brightly, because even if Dean called him names, Sam still got his way._

_This was punishment for teasing him with not giving him a goodnight kiss._

_"Okay," he said, announcing that he was done, and lay down on the bed._

_Dean grimaced and shook his head, blew his bangs out of his freckled face, and headed across the floor to turn off the light. He climbed into his own bed and made some pointed noise about pulling the covers up, wriggled down against the pillow, and shut his eyes._

_Time passes slower for little boys. Sam thought he'd waited an hour, when it had really only been ten minutes. He got up from his bed and carefully moved over the floor, crossing the few feet between his bed and his brother's. He picked the covers up, and carefully crawled in under them._

_Dean shifted over on the bed with a grunt. It was the same thing, every night._

_Sam shifted around until he could find the solid warmth of his brother's body, and wiggled about insistently until he could get himself halfway under him. He moved his top around around Dean, and scooted his hand up under the hem of the older boy's pajama top, so he could press his palm against the skin of his back._

_He settled his face against Dean's chest, with the tip of his nose in between the buttons of his shirt, until it brushed Dean’s flesh, breathing in the only scent he knew that meant 'home'._

\----

Dean drove back from West Grand Lake under a summer storm, rain sheeting against the windshield and ozone sharp in the air. The downpour had faded to a drizzle by the time the Mazda pulled into the motel parking lot, but he sat and listened to Cream rock through "Cocaine" on the radio, the engine shut off and the clunker burning battery. He didn't really know what he'd do if Sam was sitting there, still staring at the window. He hadn't taken all his pissed off out on the thrill killer's skull. The concern was worse, because it got tied up with the guilt. No amount of thinking through it had gotten him any closer to resolving the mess of emotions tied up with pushing sex on his little brother. He didn't know what to expect when he saw Sam.

He couldn't let himself think Sam wouldn't be there.

After a couple of minutes watching tiny raindrops mist up the windshield, he climbed out of the car and headed to the room, rummaging in his pocket for the key.

Sam was waiting for him.

He was sitting on the edge of their bed, and when Dean opened the door Sam stood up. He looked nervous, which was good, because, hell, at least nervousness was something.

Anything was better than nothing at all.

"I'm sorry..." Sam said, moving cautiously towards Dean, as if he didn't think his advance would be accepted. "...I'm so sorry..." He reached a hand up carefully, brushing his palm over Dean's cheek.

Dean stood uncertain in the doorway, watching Sam creep up on him with that kicked puppy face on that always won him his way. Sam touched his cheek and, for a second, things were all right. Dean imagined saying 'I'm sorry,' too, and picking up where they left off two weeks ago.

He ducked his head away from Sam's hand, and used the pretense of shutting the door behind him to sidestep the bigger man. He kept his eyes off Sam's pathetic expression and walked to drop his bag off over by the wall.

Sam wanted to apologize. It should have been good. It should have been the best of all possible worlds. Instead, Dean was angrier than he had been before. It was like Sam wouldn’t let him be wrong.

Sam turned and watched his brother and felt the uncertainty he'd feared over the last couple of days snap into certainty.

He wasn't forgiven.

He lowered his hand, and his gaze. He bit his lip hard, shutting his eyes.

Dean couldn't look his brother's way, couldn't let himself see whatever Sam's face looked like. He stood looking down at his duffel.

"What are you sorry for, anyway?"

Sam barked a sick laugh at that, suddenly feeling offended.

"What, you're just going to pretend it didn't happen now?" He stared at his brother in disbelief.

Dean rounded on him, anger on his face and poisoning his voice.

" _I'm_ the one who apparently can't keep his _dick_ outta your ass." He shoved his fingers through his short hair and turned away, again, pacing a tight circle and swaying to a halt.

"What the fuck does that mean?!" Sam wasn't even sure what it was they were arguing about. Why they were arguing about it. He'd felt sick the whole time Dean had been gone, when he'd woken up and knew his brother had left because of what he'd done. The way he'd tried to hurt him. He hated that he'd tried to take this out on the one person who had stuck beside him in all this, and he'd been waiting for Dean to come back so that he could apologize to him.

How'd they end up yelling at one another?

Dean wasn't done yelling, fury in his voice.

"Gimme the kicked-dog face, again. I'll pretend I didn't _bone_ my little brother when he was too fucked up to say ' _Hey_ , not interested.'"

Sam stared at Dean, his jaw working soundlessly. Finally he managed to find his voice, but it was somewhat cracked and desperate.

"I was trying to tell you I was _sorry_..." he gestured uselessly, at a loss, again, because it seemed everything with Dean put him through the emotional washing machine. Right when he fucking needed it, too. "...I'm _sorry_. Jesus." He covered his face, partly because he couldn't look at Dean and partly because it seemed his brother thought he was trying to _manipulate_ him or something. "I just...I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry."

Dean couldn't keep his pique with Sam breaking down in front of him. He stared at him, confused -- upset inside, murky with emotion, the blame he placed on himself piercing keen.

"...be _mad_ at me or somethin', man."

Sam raised his head slowly, blinking a couple of times.

" _Mad_ at you? For what?"

It was several seconds of staring dumbly at his little brother later when Dean hit on the fact that they were fighting over who got to be at fault and grimaced, irritated with the whole thing.

"We're not doin' this. This is stupid. Just...sit down."

Sam got the same thing that Dean did. He didn't really understand it, but he moved to the chair by the window that he'd sat in for so long, but turned it to face inward, towards the room.

Dean sat down on the bed, letting the tension slump out of his shoulders. He pressed a hand to his face and waited until what felt like the stirrings of a headache died down.

"...do we seriously have to talk about our feelin's? I changed my mind. Just shoot me, instead."

"...do you really want to just let this pass and not talk about it?" Sam responded evenly. Whoever's fault it was, whatever it was that had gone on, it was clearly going to weigh heavily on their minds until it was cleared up.

Dean dropped his hand and the dismay twisted up his face but he gave up, finally.

"...no. I mean, _yes_. I do." He gestured vaguely. "You don't...You don't think I...pushed you into anything, back there?"

Sam thought about a little bit, considering it honestly.

"No...I mean, I didn't. Maybe a little...At first." His eyes darted up, looking at Dean, then away. "I mean...I knew what you wanted. But I...I don't even know." He ran a hand through his hair. At the time he'd felt so deadened that he'd had no response. He didn't want to summon the energy to say no, so he had just complied. "I consented, so it's not that...I mean, that didn't bother me. I just wasn't--...I couldn't--...Ugh." He hung his head again, taking a couple deep breathes. "I don't know. It's so hard to _think_ right now. I don't even remember walking back to the motel, or...I don't know. I just crawled into bed and I knew what you wanted and I just didn't care. And then...I don't know. Afterwards I saw how much I'd hurt you and I was fucking _happy_ about it. I couldn't believe that, I mean, how sick do you have to be to actually _want_ to hurt someone...? And you're the only person I have...I don't know. I'm _sorry_ , Dean."

"...okay," Dean admitted, "maybe _some_ of it's _your_ fault."

He didn't know where to begin to process that information. He couldn't say 'I forgive you,' because he didn't. It was different from saying 'I can't forgive you'. He'd only just found something to be angry about.

"I think I'm gonna be mad as hell for a minute. Don't take that the wrong way." His eyes roamed the back of the bed, the lamp by the dresser, glanced off to the other side, and then studied the floor. 

And there it was. He glared up, good and mad.

"...whatta you _mean_ you were _happy_ about it? I wouldn't'a been sulkin' my ass down by that lake if I knew it was _shits and giggles_ for you."

Sam's instant sibling reaction was to get defensive, but that was decidedly not fair and he bit it back.

"I know...I know. I felt like _shit_ the minute you left. I hated..." He wanted to say he hated himself for what he'd done, but it was too close, too raw. "It was just like I wanted to lash out and someone and you were the only--...It wasn't fair. I'm so sorry, Dean, god, I'm sorry."

"You're such a _dick_ ," Dean spat. It was the last of his anger and he let himself drop back against the bed, his face hot and his breathing quick, and glowered at the ceiling until his body calmed down.

"I shouldn't've gotten up on you." He pushed himself back upright, stiffly. He shrugged. "That was my bad."

Sam looked up at his brother, taking the little piece of apology. He knew it was less than he deserved. He also knew it was all that he'd get.

He'd wanted to apologize, drag Dean to bed and not leave for a few days. That was clearly not possible, anymore.

"...okay," Sam pursed his lips, then nodded, as if to say 'and that's that'. He rose from his seat, rubbing his hands absently on his thighs, then moved to the bathroom.

Outside, the storm clouds had cleared and the sun was warming the parking lot and turning the inside of the Mazda into an oven.

Sitting on the bed, a slow cold snuck into Dean's stomach. It was okay to argue in a relationship. Dean knew that backwards and forwards, but he couldn't remember a single argument with his girl where she'd told him how _happy_ she'd been to fuck him over. He heard Sam moving around the bathroom and he had to wonder exactly what Sam was to him. They didn't have _dates_ like a person you dated. They lived together, like they always had, and they had sex -- and still, his thoughts betrayed him.

_Are we breaking up?_

The noises in the bathroom stopped abruptly.

Sam opened the door quite suddenly, and stood in the doorframe. He stared at his brother with a somewhat wide eyed expression. His hand stayed on the door, his other shoulder against the door frame.

The cold in Dean's stomach dipped into arctic temperatures. His back was to Sam, he didn't have to look at him, and he didn't. His voice was shaky.

"...this is messed up, Sammy. Even for us."

" _Dean_ ," he said his name in that tone again, the everything-in-the-world tone, but this time heavily tinged with pleading. 

"I said I--...I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please just...I'm sorry, and I messed up, but don't do this. Not this. Fuck." Everything was in a fucking hand basket. Now it seemed he'd cut the last thing he had in his life out. Not that he could particularly _blame_ Dean, but that didn't change what he wanted.

That was probably selfish of him.

He couldn't tell.

He had no perspective anymore. Couldn't find the horizon to his life to tell by.

" _Please_. I'm _sorry_."

Dean could feel himself crying, the tears spilling over his cheeks. He didn't understand why he always had to _cry_ about shit. Sam never cried. Sam yelled sometimes and got red in the face but didn't have to wipe his eyes, or hide a trembling lip, or hide somewhere to use the telephone to call Dad because he was gonna choke up and tear up and swallow back a sob. Dean wasted a whole damn lot of energy a whole damn lot of the time on _not_ crying -- but for a minute, it was too much.

He reached up and wiped his face. He wanted his old barriers back -- wanted his distance back. Sam had ploughed through every last effective one since he'd picked up his little mind reading talent and Dean couldn't blow him off, and he couldn't crack a joke, and he couldn't tell a lie. He wanted to do all three of those things, at once, find some perfectly damning combination to shut Sam down and lock him out...but that would mean they'd broken up, that the whole thing had ended and they were just brothers with an impossible amount of baggage. Dean wanted his old barriers back, but not enough for that.

"You know...we had sex, and I was so...fucking _happy_. And I thought...nothing does that. Nothing takes the edge off, anymore."

"Dean..." Sam mumbled again, the pitch a little more desperate than before.

There was nothing but silence for a moment, because even after four years at college Sam walked like John and Dean taught him -- without sound -- and then the mattress dipped a little, and Sam crawled his way across it. He had some vague hope that if he could just _touch_ Dean that this wouldn't be happening. His arms moved unsteadily around his brother's waist, and he rested his cheek against the flat between Dean's shoulder blades. He could hear his sibling's heartbeat, the steady beat that had always been there for him.

"I was, too. It was...god it was good. Don't...Don't end this. You can't do that. You can't...get me to feel like this again, after everything, and end it. Don't. I'm...fuck. I'll beg if I have to. Don't end it." His long fingers knit themselves into the fabric of Dean's shirt across his stomach, not wanting to let go.

"I don't want to." Dean held the back of Sam's hand, larger than his own. "I don't want to end this. _You_ don't wanna end this. Could we...Can we just--...." He cut off that struggling train of thought. "...we can agree on that one."

"Yeah..." Sam swallowed hard. It was a cold comfort. It made it sound like they were just staving off the inevitable. "...I'm sorry for what I did. I should have...said something. I don't know. I think I'm going to be a really shitty person for awhile...is that...Can that be okay...?" His other hand, the one not covered by Dean's, moved over his brother's stomach slowly.

Dean let some of his weight rest against Sam, at his back.

"I need--...I get...Sam, I can't be the guy that takes care of all the shit. I can deal with whatever when I'm bein' your big brother, but I got shit of my own. I need...You know, on the phone, when you hung up? I needed you, man."

"Then I need you to _say_ that. I can't...I mean. I don't _want_ to be in your head all the time, Dean..." He kissed the back of his brother's neck. "I can't...bare myself to you out loud every time something happens, and then have you just say 'go fish'...I want to be here for you. I want to...I do want to give you what you need but you gotta ask me for it." He leaned his forehead against the spot he'd kissed. He didn't sound angry. He was trying to tell Dean, just like Dean was telling him what he needed. "On the phone? All I heard was silence."

"...guess I'm used to it, now." Dean smiled, but it wasn't happy. He was talking about his feelings...but he didn't feel girly, or emasculated, or like a fairy. He felt sore, and exposed, and sick. He hadn't told Sam to get out of his head, or been pissed when Sam overheard something, or complained about Sam not practicing controlling his abilities since...he didn't even know when. A frown creased his brow and he wondered how concerned he needed to be that that had stopped concerning him.

"Yeah, but it doesn't go both ways. I just...I can't keep saying all these things that are difficult to say, and painful to say." Sam was being painfully honest with Dean. Telling him things like that he'd taken relief in the fact that someone else was hurting, that he could hurt someone. He didn't _have_ to tell Dean that, but it was part of being honest with someone.

He was used to Jess. He was used to being able to share pain and pleasure with one another and find support and comfort in that. 

Now it felt like he was feeding little pieces of himself into the shredder that was Dean and getting nothing in response. Or twisted, forced sentences when he pushed Dean to respond to him verbally.

"You can't ask me to be there for you when you aren't willing to put yourself on the line. Most the time when I try to...Say anything at all, you make some comment about me being a girl or whatever and brush me off. You _hurt_ me." He needed Dean to understand that. He _wanted_ Dean to understand him. 

But really, there he went again. He didn't know what Dean would say, but it was another moment where he felt like he was dangling. He wondered if things wouldn't be better if he just kept his mouth shut.

Though, that's what he'd done last time, and it hadn't ended well.

"...can I...can I ask you somethin'? About Jessica."

Dean had thrown away most of the fragments of the table in the dumpster behind the McDonalds after Sam disappeared that night, but there were still splinters scattered in the carpet.

"...yeah, you can," Sam said softly, licking his lips.

"You two...I mean, did you _date_? Go _out_ places, you know...I know you lived together."

"Yeah. We did." Sam paused, collecting his thoughts. "It took us a long time to become friends. I didn't even really want to go out the first time she asked me, but then we just kept hanging out...Still took a lot of dates before we became, you know...serious." His eyes lingered in the dark, looking down Dean's back to the mattress, thinking of his dead girlfriend.

"You oughta let me take you out sometime. Hell, you can take me out. I don't care. You know, like...people. People don't sit around motels and...eat licorice fish." He gestured towards a stale, lonely Swedish Fish lying near the floorboard.

Sam smiled a little.

"...You can take me out sometime," he responded, moving his other hand to cover Dean's, as if they were playing a game of 'one potato', their hands stacked up together.

"I will. You watch." Just deciding it brought confidence back into Dean's voice, and he added, "It won't be to a bar."

The gears were turning in his head now. Who wouldn't go crazy in their situation? They'd dug themselves into a rut. A part of him thought it was stupid and crazy to try and _date_ his little brother, but that was the same part of him that called Sam 'Princess', time to time.

Sam's body shifted a little, drawing away at first, to gather his long legs up. He moved so that his legs fell to either side of Dean's, legs spread around him. Sam's arms came back again, around his brother's waist again, this time their bodies brought together more securely.

Dean blew out a breath, air whispering audible between his lips. He tilted his head back to let it rest on Sam's shoulder, closed his eyes, his brow knotted in that expression he got watching a particularly fine backside swish by, and he rested his arm over Sam's.

 _Damn, that…_ " _Damn_ , that's nice."

"Let's just--..." Sam started softly, and moved to tighten his arm. "Let's just stay here," he said, almost inaudibly. "Just for now..."

Dean relaxed against Sam's bigger body, offering no complaints. It was welcome relief from the crippling insecurity of the past two weeks just to feel Sam sturdy behind him.

\----

_Jessica’s back hit the walls of the hallway. Her fingers curled, nails scraping the wallpaper and they both knew this wasn’t going to be a night of slow love making, like they’d expected. Like Jess’d probably expected._

_Sam was the guy that was nice, and quiet, and got good grades. He was that guy you took home to meet your parents. He wasn’t the guy who threw you up against a wall, out in a public area, and attacked your neck like some kind of animal._

_Except he totally was, apparently._

_She curled a thigh up against his side, and his erection pressed hot against her stomach, his frame so much taller than hers. He had to bend down like a crane to kiss her, and she had to stand on her tippy toes. It was sort of romantic. This though? This was just hot._

_They’d been dating now for almost four months. She’d tried the sex thing before. He’d always gently refused. That wasn’t unusual, for him. She knew him pretty well, all things told. Even with all the things he wouldn’t tell her, even with all those scars on his skin and the muscles that looked like they belonged to a kick boxer._

_He would have slowed down, if she wanted him to, but she didn’t. She was there, with him. She always surprised him. Even after all this time, the months before they started dating, the months they’d spent just getting to know one another and attempt to work out some kind of friendship, she still surprised him._

_She was changing, always mutable. She learned things and altered herself to fit new information. She moved like the world moved, and moved with it. She was like a force, natural and untappable._

_When he pressed his face against the softness of her belly he thought of goddesses and the divine mechanism hidden under her skin. He’d never seen his father around a woman before, besides the cordially distant attitude he took with waitresses and their like. His brother was a complete womanizer. He had no idea where he’d gathered this idea of her body like some powerful rite, but he knew that it was she, not him, that controlled this._

_Controlled them._

_When they made it to her apartment they sought the bed almost immediately. Her back met the mattress and he crawled over her. He thought, in a distant way, about the fact that he’d never slept with anyone before. Not for lack of possibility, or for lack of his brother’s efforts at throwing skanks at him. He had refused. He was uninterested._

_Until tonight, until Jessica’s breasts were bared and he was drowning in the feeling of her body arching under his._

_He was not embarrassed or awkward, not even uncomfortable. He didn’t need any reference to know how to do this. He had been trained to depend on his instincts, and the primal brain that most people trained themselves out of at the age of five was the brain that a Winchester lived on in the dark, when there was something out there coming for their throats._

_The brain that said eat, sleep, hunt, kill, fuck, protect, love. The brain that said grow claws, sink teeth, drink deep and make young. Most humans thought it comical at best, sick at worst. Sam wanted to turn it off, to taste normal, breath in safe, but it was him, part of him, as sewn to him as the last name that he hated. Even in his most hateful moments, he felt the instincts moving under his skin and his gut said_ This is right. This is natural. This is who we are. __

_He pushed inside of her without a condom, and her head fell back against the pillow. She looked up at him, unwavering. The moment he felt her muscles grasping him and her eyes staring in to his, brazen and understanding at once, he knew he’d never love any other woman. She embraced him with her limbs, and while her physical body could never match the power he’d developed in his own, she always matched him in spirit._

_She bowled him straight over._

_He had always been picking the lesser of two disinterests, always doing only what seemed to be the thing he should do. Leaving his family for school, searching for a place that he understood, a niche that was Sam-sized, trying to figure out what he was in a world where he wasn’t quite Winchester, but wasn’t quite normal either._

_She held him in her conviction in the same way that her body held him in the tight heat of her womb. Her passion for everything was so powerful it made him want to pass out, and he knew that he never wanted to be parted from her, from the scent of her, the feel of her fingertips, the rise of her body, the words that fell from her lips with an ease that he would never possess._

_He came to her bed and she let him, held him, and he slept against her. For all the power in his body, she owned every piece of him._

\----

Dean had never been on a first date, before. It had something to do with the way dating Cassie crept up on him, how waking up next to her the first time had been like waking up next to any other one night stand, and then she said, "Let's go get breakfast," and he'd done that before, too, and it was when she said "I've gotta go to class, and then I have work, but then I'll be home, and if you wanted to meet me there around eight, I wanted to go see that new thing with Will Smith, and...then we'll have sex," that they were maybe, technically dating, but he didn't see it that way until two weeks later, when he collapsed at her house after a difficult hunt, and she asked if he wanted to catch lunch at a new Japanese place in the morning. Before that moment, it was just hanging out with yet another chick whose vagina made him horny inside.

Dean had never been on a first date, so it was intimidating to come up with an idea that didn't blow, because he had to do it behind Sam's back, too, while Sam was asleep or when he went out to forage up something besides McDonalds. Planning it with Sam didn’t have the same _effect_.

He was aware that he would be willing to do things in terms of dating Sam that he would not otherwise do under any separate circumstances, like go to an art museum, or hustle pool until he could get orchestra tickets in New York, but that kind of thing would be a sucky _first_ date because, obviously, he was going to have trouble fitting in, in that kind of environment. Sam might find that entertaining as hell, at some embarrassing future juncture, but he wouldn't when he was totally stressed out _all the time_. 

The wifi at Starbucks told Dean there was some kind of zoo/amusement park thing not all that far away and he thought that'd be totally _awesome_. Heck if he ever got to go somewhere like that, and he wanted to throw popcorn at emus! (He had googled an emu and discovered it was an animal he _really_ wanted to throw popcorn at.) He recognized, intuitively, that Sam might _not_ want to throw popcorn at emus -- he would even say something like "Dean, stop beaning the poor damn emus" -- so, he started thinking in terms of something simpler, something with less emus and less bears that he couldn't possibly _not_ throw popcorn at.

He finally decided on something safe. Something that started with dinner. He had saved up some money from scamming people and gambling here and there, and he still had some emergency cash from doing actual work, so he shaved his face and washed the jeans without holes and wore a shirt that didn't smell and he looked up some nearby restaurants on the wifi at Starbucks and, two days after deciding to date his brother, he took Sam out for dinner.

At first it was somewhat awkward.

Not because of Dean, oddly, but because of Sam.

When you washed away all that soap and Gap clothing with dirt and shame, Sam was still a Winchester underneath it all. It was his first time actually being around people in two weeks (even when he'd been gone for two days a week and a half ago, he'd been wandering the nearby forests and the town alleys), and at first he seemed a little twitchy. It took a few minutes for him to settle down and start acting more like Sam and less like John.

Also, he was on a date with his brother, and how fucking bizarre was that?

And kind of nice.

Sam settled down, and went more quiet. It would be a long time before he was "normal" again, but at least this was a contented quiet. Even before all of this had happened, they didn't go out into public like this much, other than to interview people or get into places they needed to go. It was strange (and good) to just sit in a restaurant and enjoy sitting there and looking around, and be around people.

Not feel like a freak.

None of these people knew what he was. Not inside, not how he grew up, nothing. To them he was a faceless blur, and that was perfect.

But Dean looked at him and saw him, and Sam _missed_ that. He turned to look at his brother, and he felt some pang of memory, and it was good. He smiled a little, slow but real.

Dean grinned across the table at him. He was more interested in watching Sam watch people than watching people, but that worked out all right. Surrounded by all the normalcy of regular people with regular jobs having regular conversations, it was a lot easier to talk without all the drama they'd stacked up between them. Dean joked, and he flirted -- he did what he was good at, but when had he really turned those talents on flattering Sam? He was coaxing and cajoling with only the intention of learning a little more about the brother who remained, in a lot of ways, mysterious to him. He had never once heard or cared to ask how Sam had gotten money to live on while he was off at college, but when he did ask, and after he heard, he was interested. He didn't know anything about clerking at courthouses, but it was a part of Sam he had been literally unaware of and he felt a little pleasure and a little excitement.

Dean's questions and sudden interest baffled Sam for a moment. It was weird to have his brother so interested in having him talk. Having them talk. Usually Dean just made a joke and moved the topic away from serious conversation.

He felt like he'd been trying to get that all his life, and here it was. He'd grown confidence, become independent, become _someone_ , and then all of a sudden the minute Dean noticed it, it seemed that Sam was nine again and completely in Dean's pocket.

He found himself talking about things like working in the library his freshman year, and the poltergeist in the dorms that he'd killed. All sorts of random tales that had before been 'off limits', because they Didn't Talk About The Time Sammy Was Away.

Dean encouraged him at it while they waited for their food, and after their food came, too. He had stories Sam wasn't a part of, but most of them were the same kind of thing they encountered day to day, a lot of ghosts, some tight spots with some more corporeal suckers.

"...so it wasn't a ghost down by West Grand Lake. It was just a psychopath. I cold-cocked him and left him for the cops," he shared. He hadn't brought it up since he'd gotten back. He smiled to himself. "I checked. It made the news."

"Yeah?" Sam quirked his head slowly, eating the last of his food. 

Sam asked him to elaborate, and he listened to his brother's story of what had happened. It was strange to be just _talking_ again. Like they used to. Not just before Sam left for college, but even before that, before the first time they stopped talking to one another.

Once, they had told each other everything. Every secret, every truth behind ever lie told. There was a time when it had been normal to listen to Dean natter on about life. Now it was unusual. 

It was a good distraction -- from life, from the motel room, from the way that all four of life's walls were pressing in down around them.

With real food and a couple of beers in them, a meal paid for in cash, so that it _almost_ really belonged to them, they headed out to the Mazda. Dean kissed Sam against the car door. People saw them, but they were Mainers. It wasn't that Dean had any less respect for people from Maine than he lacked for anybody else, but their state _was_ off in a corner, cornered by Canada, and he saw it about once every three years. He savored the extraordinary debauchery of kissing his brother in a public parking lot where the only moral judgment people made would fall somewhere short of the mark.

"You," he said, tapping Sam's chest authoritatively, thrilled with his own wickedness, and he smirked. "We're goin' somewhere. No readin' my mind."

Sam had his back against the Mazda when Dean pulled away from him, and he had to say -- he was impressed. 

Dean was doing this.

Really, actually doing this. And following through and everything.

Dean poked at his chest and Sam smiled a little. Despite the fact that all the 'surprises' life had offered him over the last two weeks had been pretty much horrible, he was looking forward to this. Dean clearly had thought this out.

"...alright." He kissed him again, and yes -- it was incredibly debauched to be kissing one's brother in the middle of a parking lot. But it still felt good, anyways.

Dean made him close his eyes when they got close. He hammed it up a little, it was Dean and he couldn't help himself. He pulled into the parking lot and turned the car off, leaned back in his seat and made Sam wait. As far as he was concerned the anticipation, the _wondering_ , was a big part of the whole thing.

"Alright," he announced. "We're here."

It was a bookstore. One of those big, chain bookstores with a coffee shop inside it. One of those kinds of places Dean was usually pretty clear would never see any of his hard-hustled cash.

It wasn't about the place, not really. 

Sam usually managed to find contentment wherever he was. He could sit in a smoky bar and ignore the world around him. He could nap through Zeppelin. He could study around researching a hunt. He was used to having to forge his own little corner in the world.

It was the fact that Dean had thought about it, sat down and thought about it, and had looked for a place that would make Sam happy.

Sam looked out the windshield at the place, then looked over to his brother and smiled. Not little this time. Not forced.

Dean held up his hands and he shrugged.

"I'm just that good." It was obvious from the way his whole face brightened with Sam's smile that it wasn't about him. Not really at all. He climbed out of his side of Mazda and came around to meet Sam on his, opened the door, even, with only a little embellishment.

He could be a good date. He could be a good boyfriend, even, in a long term kind of relationship. It still felt pretty silly to think about Sam in those terms, but it felt _excellent_ to do something right for once, too.

It would be difficult to ever think about a brother like that.

For Sam, Dean would always be his big brother. Despite all that was said, Dean would never, ever stop being the person who raised Sam, the person who shaped him, the person who had given him the confidence that he did, the person who instilled his weaknesses in him. 

He could be in love with that person.

He was. 

But Dean would never _stop_ being that person. And Sam was sort of glad of that, because they were brothers. Always would be. He wouldn't trade out 'brothers' for 'lovers'. He'd rather have it all. 

He took Dean's hand in his, and looked a little bit smug. This was his, this whole outing. Dean had given it to him. It was the first time Sam had looked smug in a long time.

Dean looked at him a little strange, to be walking hand in hand, but it was only the first moment. It segued to amusement, and if it made him feel a little dorky, it'd been a awhile, too. Sam didn't even remember the last time, walking down that twisted road in his mind. The whole secret identity thing made it fun like a covert op. He wanted somebody to yell out 'Fag!' so he could yell back 'Hell, no! He's my brother!' The only thing that'd stop him would be Sam's elbow in his stomach.

Too bad the twenty-first century had gotten all progressive.

Maybe if they walked into a biker bar or something. But a bookstore with a coffee shop? Dean was courting the wrong crowd. 

Said coffee shop had those little cushy sofas that were ‘in’ at places like these, and it didn't take long for Sam to find something of interest. It had been awhile since he'd read anything that wasn't on the supernatural. He got something hot to drink, even though it was still summer out, and drank it slowly and pulled one long leg up against his chest, the other stretched out to rest the book's spine on his thigh.

It was a biography, but he scarcely cared who's. All that mattered was that it was quiet, and there were people milling around. He felt clean and almost alive for the first time in two weeks. There was no tornado of circular thoughts twisting around in his head. It was all blissfully simple.

Dean ordered his usual black coffee and read some newspapers, his mainstays, looking for anything that sounded like it needed killing and catching up on the saga of his thrill killer. He learned there was no death penalty in Maine. He procured a huge piece of something made of fudge and whipped cream and maybe pudding that could only vaguely be dignified with the word 'pie', and worked on taking it apart while Sam enjoyed his quiet.

At one point Sam leaned over, reaching out with his non-book hand, and swiped a little bit of the dubious creation.

When the pie defeated Dean, eventually and inevitably, settled back to veg, satisfied that he'd had an actual good idea. He could look at Sam and see Sam looked less peaked. He knew stuff about Sam it'd taken him close to two years to find out. They weren't out of the woods, yet, but where two days before he thought things were crashing towards 'over', now he could see a new venue of release opening up a lot more options.

Sam wasn't layered like Dean. There weren't levels a person could descend.

Sam was a barreling force, fast and powerful and intensely emotional. When he came close to the edge of anything -- fear, grief, anger -- he tended to go straight over. 

The quiet, the calm, the silence of the world calmed him. The low sound of people around him, and the knowledge that he wasn't alone soothed him. The documents he read, the history and the beyond-any-doubt proof that someone had come before him, found only in books, gave him a sense of peace.

He was the type of person who needed that.

Dean had delivered in a major way.

Sam stayed there late. Later than he really had intended. He became engrossed and before long he was statue-like. The times he did move, the jerkiness that had interrupted all his movements over the last two weeks seemed to be gone, having faded out into the smooth, controlled motions he was used to.

A voice came over the speakers saying the store was closing in ten minutes, and Sam turned his head up, looking surprised.

Dean cracked one eye at the announcement, and chuckled at how Sam startled. That was the little brother he wanted to see.

"You wanna buy it?"

Sam paused and looked over at Dean, then nodded slightly.

"Yeah." His lips quirked a little.

Not for the book, though, really, but because it was symbolic. A memory. Honestly, he'd have to cut off his testicles to say _that_ out loud.

Dean shelled out cash, again, if it wasn't spent on Sam, Dean knew he'd just blow it on beer.

It wasn't too expensive, or else Sam would have said no anyways.

He might have had a sentimental streak, but he was still sensible, and still frugal.

They got back to the motel at midnight. Dean kicked his sneakers off by the door, feeling sluggish, although the cake was almost digested.

To Sam's mind, there was really only one way to end the evening.

Or, at least, to attempt. If Dean didn't want to, Sam wouldn't blame him.

He watched his older brother toe off his shoes and pull his socks off, moving over to him once the door was closed and Dean was barefoot. He leaned down and in, pressing his lips against his brother's, tasting the bite and flavor of the too-heavy confection on him.

Dean didn't flinch away. There was a moment's memory of sitting under cold water in the shower with his hair flattened against his head and a painful erection that faded only slowly...but he still wanted it. 

They were already halfway disrobed when they hit the bed, in the dark, and Dean pulled the covers down and got Sam underneath them, a lot warmer way to get naked.

Sam's breathing quickened, hot against Dean's face as they kissed. His hand found the back of Dean's neck, felt the somewhat spiky, close cropped hairs there, arched his head up to press his lips into Dean's. 

It was warm under the covers, their bodies pressed to one another. Once all their clothing was removed and it was just skin to skin, it was even warmer. Sam searched out his brother's hand, pressing it to his erection for more than just the pleasure of touch.

Dean smiled against Sam's mouth, his fingers closing around the stiff flesh under his hand and stroking loosely. Out of the few things he needed in his life, Sam hard and wanting him was at the top of the list. If he had that, he was pretty sure he could get by without much else.

The third time he pushed inside his brother was like the first, swallowing him into fulfillment.

Sam's body arched against him and it was like last time hadn't occurred. Hell. For Sam, it was even better than the first time.

He felt good. Not just in body. He had really felt pretty good the whole evening.

No one evening could make this better. Sam didn't know if his entire life was long enough to make this really _okay_. He knew that this moment was good, but it was just as likely that he could fall into another valley in two days, his moods rising and falling as he tried to work through the radical changes in his life.

All the same. Now was good.

He came with Dean's name on his lips.

\----

_"...and then I covered the bones in lighter fluid, and I set it on fire," Dean explained authoritatively._

_"You did a good job," Pastor Jim congratulated, and Dean beamed._

_Pastor Jim had been nodding along through Dean's account of his hunting trip for the better part of the last half hour._

_Sam just looked put out._

_Dean had been gone for_ three days _. To them, that was something in the realm of_ forever _. Dean was always with him._

_Not recently, though._

_Two months ago had been Dean's birthday. He'd turned thirteen. Sam had gotten some help from Pastor Jim and managed to make a cake. Dad's birthday present had been to tell Dean that he was old enough to come on hunts now. They'd both been trained since they could remember, but this would be the first time that Dean came on a hunt with his father. He'd been so excited, thrilled. Sam just looked a little shocked._

_Two months later and all Dean could talk about was hunting. He'd spend all his time looking after the knife set that belonged to their father, or cleaning the guns, or sitting around and telling stories of daring do. Sam had enjoyed the stories. That was like normal. But then Dean started saying things like 'you're too young, Sammy'. Things like 'Well, I'm an adult now. You're still a kid.' Being a kid didn't bother Sam._

_Being without Dean bothered Sam._

_For two months his big brother had been too busy for him most of the time, too important for him. He and Dean were always talking, whispering in each other's ears, or play fighting, or racing, or laying around when they were tired, in positions that the Pastor had described as 'Celtic knot'. They were never separate. Dean was as much a part of daily life for Sam as air was._

_But now Dean was leaving him. Dean was growing up, and Sam wasn't. Dean was becoming an adult, and leaving Sam lonely in childhood._

_"I hope Sammy didn't bother you too much 'cause I wasn't around to watch him," Dean conferred seriously._

_"Oh, no," Jim protested. "Sammy was very helpful around the church." He offered Sammy a kind smile._

_Sam gawked at his brother, floundering for a minute to defend himself._

_Dean was the one who always defended him. He had no idea what to say. It hurt like scissors._

_Pastor Jim looked down at him with a smile, but Sam just stared at him, then at Dean, then ran out of the sanctuary._

_It was Pastor Jim who came and found Sam. It was Pastor Jim who sat down with him in the rectory and talked to him respectfully, like nine years old wasn't too young to understand the changes Dean was going through. Give him a few months to get used to it, Jim suggested._

_Sam looked at the Pastor's face the whole time, with the same, somewhat off-puttingly serious and direct expression the child had always had. But Jim had always treated them like adults, or, at least, spoken to them as such._

_Sam listened to him and nodded, but it was clear that Jim's words did nothing to really put him at ease. Dean was the beginning and end of the world as Sam knew it. Since he was six months old he'd been in his brother's care, and he couldn't even remember that far back._

_He just knew that he couldn't remember a time when Dean hadn't been all around him. Except for now. He couldn't remember a time when Dean hadn't_ wanted _to be all around him. Dean joked and teased, but he'd always been there, comfortable with sitting on the couch and watching TV with Sam's head on his tummy. Or making up stories for Sam. Sam knew that he was the only person Dean'd ever cry in front of. He was the only person that Dean let hug him when he wanted comfort._

_They came in a pair._

_That was one of the defining rules of Sam's world. He could have possibly figured out what to do if someone was trying to tear them apart, but he had no idea where to begin when it was Dean who was leaving him._

_He thanked the Pastor for his words, but in the end he wandered off just as dejected._

_He went to the bathroom to get ready for bed, brushing his teeth by himself._

_Dean didn’t come to bed at their bedtime. Dean didn’t come to bed a whole lot longer than that. Dean had never had a bedtime like Sam, because, most of the time, if there was no adult around, Dean was in charge of enforcing bedtimes, but they almost always went to sleep together. Lately, he’d been staying up later and later._

_Sam waited in bed the whole time._

_He stared at his brother's bed, running his fingers slowly over the sheets because there wasn't Dean's pajama's to knot them in._

_He perked up a little though, when the door opened, spilling a little light into the room. He watched his brother get changed and settle into bed. For once Sam didn't waste any time in moving -- he was incredibly tired, and he wanted to go to sleep._

_He crawled out of bed, moving quietly over the creaky floorboards of the church, and lifted the covers to Dean's bed, getting in._

_The mattress shifted underneath his sleight weight, and Dean acknowledged him with a groan._

_The older boy rolled over, barely able to pick out Sammy's shadowy form in the darkness, his eyes un-adjusted._

_"...come on, Sammy. We're gettin' a little_ old _to sleep in the same bed."_

_Sam looked down at Dean like he'd grown a second head._

_"What do you mean?" Where else would they sleep but with one another?_

_"You've got your own bed," Dean pointed out, his voice a sleepy mumble. "Over_ there _. I'm really tired tonight, pipsqueak."_

_"But..." Sam shook his head a little. He didn't understand. How was he supposed to sleep without Dean? He could count the times they'd slept in separate beds on one hand, and that had all been because of circumstance. Dean had never not wanted him there._

_Sam didn't remember the way that Dean used to crawl into his crib as a baby, after their mother's death. All he knew was that he couldn't remember a time when Dean wasn't there with him when he went to sleep._

_Dean reached up, clasping Sam's shoulder._

_"You gotta start bein' a_ grownup _, Sammy. I can't take care of you all of the time."_

_Sam stared down in at him in the dark, his eyes adjusted, so he could see Dean's face clearly. To Dean, Sam was merely a dark shape._

_Which was why he was unable to see the look of_ hurt _on Sam's face._

 _"..._ fine _," he said, and jerked his shoulder out of Dean's hand, feeling something tight and horrible in his chest as he got off his brother's bed, which was no longer_ their _bed, and got back into the other one. The other one that was now_ his _bed. All those pronouns cutting in and severing him from the only person who was ever a constant presence in his life._

_To Sam, it was the greatest betrayal of his young life._

_He lay there in bed and tried not to cry, but it didn't work. He muffled himself, though, so that Dean never heard a thing. Dean didn't need him anymore. Sam had never had a security blanket, or a stuffed animal. Their mobile lifestyle didn't allow for such things. He'd never needed one, though. He'd always had Dean._

_But Dean didn't want him, anymore._

_The next day, Sam approached their father. He asked to go to school. They'd never gone before because they didn't have to -- after all, John Winchester was considered a missing person, so there were no social services to check up on them. John had once asked them if they would like to go, as it would be a good place for them to be during the day, but they'd always refused._

_Until Sam asked._

_Sam learned how to use the cards in the library, looking up all the books his teacher's told him about. At first they were all about ghosts and goblins and the like, stories that reminded him of the stories Dean told. But then he learned to read other things, learned there_ were _other things, things outside of the supernatural, things he'd never heard of before._

_Books began to fill in all the spaces that Dean used to take up, all the spaces that Dean didn't want anymore as he went out on hunts that took up more and more of his time, started following girls around, and learned how to tune a car._

_And when Sam got older and his father and brother told him it was too difficult to keep him in school? He would just go around them, go to the local libraries of the towns they stopped in. Sometimes, he'd just keep the books he rented instead of returning them. It wasn't like anyone could do anything about it. He studied and learned to use the computers to look up curriculum. He began to look at colleges and universities, began to think of what it'd be like to never have to hear Dean and Dad talk about their glory hunts. Never be forced to go on them again, go along on those adventures that were the very things that had taken his brother away from him, the things he hated._

_In time, it became conditioned. He learned to hate hunting because it symbolized the divide that had hurt him up and down. Even the moments when he enjoyed it, when he was in the moment and high on the kill, he'd look up at his brother's grinning face and go cold. By the time he was eighteen and walking out the door he didn't even remember the vow he'd made that night, even though it was the one that had led him there:_

__If Dean doesn't need me, I'll show him just how much I don't need him.

\----

The third week was spent entwined. For five days, Dean didn't look at newspapers, or flip through John's journal, or clean his guns, or sharpen his knives. For five days, Dean wasn't interested in anything more than Sam's body, and the ways he could fit it against his. With that kind of primitive distraction, Sam only had so much time to get lost in his own thoughts -- when they had to get food, or when Dean went to the drugstore to find more lube.

What Dean came back with was Vaseline and an ear-to-ear grin. He was enthusiastic to explain.

"I was standin' there, and then I remembered...you can't use oil because it tears up condoms. But _we're_ not usin' condoms. This right here? Will _not_ dry out."

He insisted on a demonstration that lasted two hours.

The week was spent mostly in the nude. When they could order in, they did that.

They watched TV when they weren't all over one another, and even then, they were still all over one another. Sam became familiar with every part of his brother's body. They traced each other with hands, covered each other with the press of lips and the sweep of tongues, and Sam felt the way the mattress flexed when Dean thrust down into him, with as much passion as he ever gave to any hunt. Sometimes Dean was playful, and sometimes Dean was loud -- exclaiming factitious encouragements that turned authentically incoherent while Sam tried to go down on him. Sometimes sex was on the floor, or in the bathtub (a trick for two six-foot men).

Things weren’t always good. No time in that period could be.

One day they were watching TV, Sam curled up on the bed with his head on Dean's stomach, the both of them naked with the sweat dried off their skin. Sam's shoulders, covered in the lines of the fading henna, began to quake slightly. The shaking continued for ten minutes, but he held it back, not crying, though he bit his lip til it bled.

It wasn't always good, because it couldn't be. But for every moment that Sam went quiet and tense, there were twenty where he was breathless against Dean.

"We gotta move, soon," Dean pointed out, on the sixth morning, stretched out on the bed with the taste of cold pizza and Sam's semen mingling in his mouth. "Ashton Moschella's gonna get his statement."

Ashton Moschella. Dean thought he might have to send him a card.

Sam had his cheek against Dean's shoulder. He was dozing. Normal hours had ceased to apply to them. They would sleep a few hours here, a few hours there, waking up intermittently to sex each other up.

It was a big change for Sam, still used to utter abstinence, with the few times he and Dean had had sex before that week breaking it up only recently. His body was gloriously spent.

Even better, he was too tired and his endorphins too high for his mind to think of much beyond 'pillow'. 

His hand drifted slowly over Dean's sternum.

"Guess that means we should put on clothes or something."

Dean hissed through his teeth. 

"You gotta make it sound so depressin'?" He messed up Sam's hair. He was overdue for one of his five dollar haircuts, himself, his hair long enough to fall over, here and there.

Sam smiled a little. He kissed his brother's pectoral lightly.

"Sorry. We can get naked again once we move into the next place."

Regret panged in Dean's chest. He didn't like the sound of those words. He wet his lips.

"This can't be our 'next week', Sammy."

Sam blinked slowly, turning his head up and looking at Dean curiously.

Dean shrugged beneath him. It was hard to let Sam down with a face like that.

"I don't hunt 'cause of the 401k. But I don't run scams because I like rippin' people off.... Sure, that's why I hustle bars. But I gotta see their _faces_."

Sam glanced down for a moment, then nodded a little.

"...I understand." He thought it over. He looked up again. "I could get a job here."

For a minute, Dean even considered it.

That surprised him.

He dropped his head back against the pillow. He shut his eyes against the earnest expression on Sam's face.

"...why you gotta look so good when you're bein' difficult?"

Sam looked over his brother's face, not entirely certain what Dean was trying to get at, but he smiled a little.

"Carefully honed skills?"

Dean squinted down at Sam. Sometimes, he couldn't believe him. Sam was the smart one, but he could be about as perceptive as sack of gravel.

"Sam, if you're askin' me to give up huntin', I don't wanna be the last to hear about it."

Sam paused at that, then shifted his head slowly, pressing his cheek back against Dean's chest. The fingers on the hand that had previously been against Dean's stomach moved up, tracing random patterns over his brother's sternum and the other side of his chest.

"...that's not what I meant. I just meant...for the meantime." Like any person running away from their troubles, he didn't intend for it to be forever. Just today. One more day. He just didn't want to think about it _now_ , which meant he just kept putting it off and putting it off.

"Until what...?" It was an effort to rally against Sam's suggestion. The concept was seductive, with Sam naked against him, hot skin and ticklish hair, almost _anything_ that came out of Sam's mouth was seductive. "I'm gettin' déjà vu. We've had these conversations, before."

"Yeah...?" Sam asked softly. "What did we decide...?" His eyes followed his fingertips as they moved over Dean's skin.

"Last time? Last time you threw a table. There was that time you decided to _kiss_ me.... Good call, by the way." He gave Sam's bare shoulder a squeeze. "I thought we decided...I thought we were gonna try and get ahead of this guy, Sammy. I thought you were with me on that."

"...yeah, I was," Sam muttered, as if distracted. A second later his voice came through clearer, more there, accompanied with a sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm...I don't know." His eyes traveled down the long length of Dean's body. "S'funny...I used to know you so well. You didn't even have to say anything. I used to know this body so well...could read it like a book...I don't know, Dean. I came here because I wanted to figure this out. Try to...get some perspective, I guess. But I can't wrap my mind around it." He looked up at his brother curiously. "What will you do...if I had a part in killing mom?" He didn't flinch, but there was a sort of sadness to him. He'd never met his mother in his memory, besides photographs and the things he could drag out of his father and his brother, but he loved her regardless.

Especially after that incident in Lawrence.

Dean eyed him, and didn't respond right away. It was a hard question.

"I'm not gonna be _thrilled_." How could he be? It wasn't something a person could be happy to hear. "It's just...if you're a demon, I gotta think twice about what demons are. Whatta I know about demons? Ghosts? Even I've got 'em figured out. But Bobby and Ruth, neither of them know what these demons are about, and those kinda people are pretty much experts."

Sam thought about it for a bit. 

"Yeah...I've always thought that they're just...wanton destruction, you know? But this one has things _planned out_. I mean...it knows what it's doing. And me? I don't...I mean I don't _feel_ evil. I think it might actually be easier if I did. If I could fit some kind of... _mold_. But I just feel like a human."

Dean pursed his lips.

"...if you take that easy way out, I'll come with you. But only if there's _orgies_."

Sam laughed quietly, lifting his head finally. He dragged his body up slowly, leaning his head down to kiss Dean softly.

"...you saying you'd go to Hell with me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I'd go to Hell without you." He smirked sly, dropping a wink. "But if it's a one person on a desert island thing? It's you."

Sam smiled a little, and drew back slowly. He stretched his long body, muscles shifting tightly over bone, and he crawled off the bed with no shame left in nudity. Dean had practically buried himself into every crevice on his body over the last few days.

He moved around the room, looking for clothes that were his, and began to get dressed.

"I'm gonna go out for a while...I think--...I think I just need to think a little." He buckled his pants, then pulled on a shirt and paused, looking towards the window with an absent expression. "I just...I feel like I need to make a _decision_ , you know?"

"Don't take two days," Dean warned. "I might kick your ass this time."

It was more of a request than a threat.

Sam smirked a little, looking back to his brother on their bed.

"Yeah. I'll keep that in mind." He paused to look for shoes, and was almost out the door before he turned, walked to his brother and bent his head, kissing him hard and deep.

Dean lay there undressed and breathing slow a long time after Sam closed the motel door behind him. He couldn't wait and hear what Sam decided and base his own calls on that. Five days of sex. He'd let himself slide, because it was Sam. But alone in the hotel room, watching the crack in the ceiling like he expected it to slither, Dean made his decisions for himself, and hoped they'd turn out to be the same as Sam's.

\----

Sam walked slowly, with no real destination.

It was different from the two days he’d gone missing. How many weeks ago was that? It all blurred together. He wasn’t even sure how long he and Dean’d spent in bed. It was a little obscene. Still made him smile a little, though.

It was hard for him to understand what he was thinking anymore. Nowadays, he didn’t even know if his mood was up or down. He wondered if maybe he’d passed into some kind of prolonged state of shock, or if he was going through stages of grief, unaware of the stages as he moved through them. How did one mourn one’s own life?

Sam Winchester was dead. Long live Sam Winchester.

He turned, walking down a thin alleyway that he knew led to the woodland beyond the small town. Ozone floated through the air, thick with like rain, as if promising a heavy storm coming in. But he was used to the scent, always following him around. Sam stopped, shutting his eyes tightly.

“God. Just _leave me alone_.”

There was no reply, and Sam opened his eyes, flinging his arms out to the sides.

“Did you hear me? _Leave me alone!!_ ”

‘ _Sam_.’ Her voice sounded low and echoic, like it was coming through a bad connection. The same way that spirits flickered, the same way their voices crackled, because the living and the dead were not meant to coexist.

‘ _Sam_.’ Quiet but insistent. ‘ _Look at me,_ ’ she asked for what must have been the hundredth time. ‘ _You have to look. You have to see these things_.’ 

He grit his teeth.

‘ _You’re running away again._ ’

“What do you mean?” he grit out.

‘ _You run. You always run. You ran from your family. From me--_ ’

“Stop.”

‘You’re running from this. And from the truth.’

“I just want a moment to even…God, how am I even supposed to absorb all of this?! Some demon is after me? My girlfriend gets killed? I tried! That was hard enough. Then I go into some coma and a demon kills some innocent woman just to wake me up, and someone tells me I’m a demon?” He shut his eyes tight again, feeling her near him. “I’m trying, Jess…I am. It’s just…too much. I can’t. It’s too much.”

‘There are things you have to see. Things you can’t see if you don’t look.’

He hissed, slow and quiet. His shoulders tensed, and he stood there, wavering, and then shifted, ever so slightly. He turned one foot out, moving in a tight circle, turning slowly to face her, his eyes already widened.

She was standing there, like she always was, even if he refused to look, refused to face her. The air moved around her like she wasn’t even there, which she wasn’t, and she looked sad and happy and old and young and nothing at all, all at once.

“Jessica,” he choked out, and she smiled for him, just for him, just like she had died for him.

And then he suddenly realized what she’d been trying to get him to see this whole time.

It wasn’t her. She didn’t want him to look at her, but to look past her, because behind her there was another spirit. He hadn’t even realized she was there, Ruth hadn’t seen her, either, but there she was. She was twisted and dark like Constance Welsh had looked in her last spiritual moments before being dragged down by her children. 

“Susan,” Sam said softly, not recognizing her dark and monstrous face, but knowing her, and knowing her intimately. “Susan Coechiro.” The last name on that little piece of paper in his back pocket.

Three people had died for him, had burnt up over his bed, bleeding and crying down on him. His mother’s spirit had dissolved itself to save him (again), and Jess had been following him since she had died. He didn’t know why he didn’t stop to think it’d be the same with this one woman. But unlike his mother and Jess, she hadn’t died for his sake. She hadn’t loved him, didn’t know him, didn’t want to be part of his life. She was just an innocent bystander, and he understood why she was twisted up and dark, because she was screaming it at him, even as she made no sound.

She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want to die, not for him. She blamed him, every part of him, for what had been done to her. And well she should.

“God, I’m sorry,” he said to her, but there was no forgiveness in her what-would-have-been eyes, just anger and pain, and the same burning need for vengeance that Sam had seen in his father’s eyes all his life. “I can’t exorcise her,” he said, looking at Jess. “Her body’s already burned, how--…”

Jessica lifted a light finger and touched Sam’s forehead, and he felt sick. 

The blood. 

He remembered the way it had dripped down on to him, splattered on his forehead both times. The way he’d woken up with the coppery scent of her on the air and the knowledge that it had happened again.

And now he knew that their spirits were, literally, bound to him. They couldn’t leave him, even if they wanted to. He swallowed hard.

‘ _She’s holding them,_ ’ Jess spoke again.

“Holding what?”

‘ _Your dreams_.’ She pointed again, and when Sam looked back at the other ghost, he saw what Jess meant. Behind her, pressing against the ghost’s back, was a tidal wave of dreams and visions and everything that Sam had been missing since he’d awoken from his coma. The woman who had died because of him, who blamed him for her death, was holding them back, keeping them from him in order to punish him for what was done to her. A punishment.

She had no idea that to him it was a blessing, and for a moment he wanted to stay like that, let her hold those things at bay, keep those things from infecting him again. And maybe he really was a demon, something evil, to force her to stay like this, suffer in her afterlife, use her anger against her in order to improve his own life.

‘ _You have to see these things._ ’

Sam shut his eyes slowly. Of course, things were never that simple. Things that he had to see. It was his visions. His visions were what Jessica wanted him to see. He turned around suddenly, trying to stride out of the alley, and away from this, but he stopped when he saw Jess standing in front of him again.

“…just let me go,” he begged.

‘ _You won’t let me go_.’ It was an accusation, but her face never changed. There was no life in her. She was just a spirit, a hollow answer in the vibrant equation of Jess’s life. 

‘ _Sam. You can’t run anymore_.’

He swallowed and shut his eyes.

Behind him he could hear Susan’s voiceless screams, and the pressure of the dreams and the visions pressing down on her, waiting to get to him.

Sam turned slowly and stepped towards her.

“I’m sorry.” It was a meaningless attempt. She blamed him with eyes that weren’t there, with words that couldn’t be heard. She hated him with a heart that didn’t beat anymore. 

He had no idea how it happened.

He reached out to touch her, and she burned up. Again. Her spirit fell apart like embers, splitting into tiny particles that burst in vibrant flares of light. His eyes followed them up into the sky, and there was no forgiveness for him.

He turned back to look at Jessica, and there was no comfort to give him when the dreams and visions crashed down against him, tearing up the tender insides of his skull, taking what little comfort Dean had placed there.

It never stops, he thought, writhing on the alley floor, his body contorting and flipping in pain. It never stops, not for him or for Dean, or anyone else. The world kept on turning, and people like Jessica would never see tomorrow, and demons like him would regret to live through it.

\----

Sam Winchester woke up on July 24th, 2007. He stared up at the darkened sky and knew things like the way the air would taste next year. He raised his hand to the sky, and stared through his fingers.

He thought of all the dreams he’d missed, more than the visions. He thought about the memories of his family, of his dead lover, of his brother. He thought about the road they’d have to walk, the road they’d already walked. He thought about his mother, and the only memory he had of her was when she was already dead. He wondered if he could remember the lining of her womb, and knew that he hadn’t been Sam then. He knew that he’d never met her in life, not once ever. This body, half hers, half his fathers, was not his own.

He owed it to them.

He lowered his hand and let all his own dreams, his own aspirations slip through his fingers like the wind. When he was empty and it was done, he stood up. When he was ready, he turned and walked out the alley, down the streets. When he saw the person who’d abandoned him, the person he’d abandoned, the person he was sleeping with and who shared his blood, he smiled and kissed him and told him it was time to go back.

There had been things he’d wanted, once, but he didn’t feel the deadness he thought he would to let them go. He owed them. His mother, his father, his brother. This family he’d torn up and torn apart. He felt a lingering remorse, somewhere in the back of his mind, the last of the person he’d been.

When they drove back, saw the past in the rear view mirror, ugly and beautiful all at once, and the future out on the asphalt in front of them, hard and dirty.

But Dean just smiled a little, and they were together, at least.

The fourth week, they stopped running.


	16. Chapter 16

The echo of sneakers slapping on pavement ricocheted from the rafters of the old shipping center. Years ago, trains had loaded and unloaded at the southern end of the building, boxes and barrels trading hands and trading forklifts across its crowded floors. Now, it was wide open and empty, windows with graffiti over them or shot out by boys killing time, dust and dirt swept into piles where homeless travelers built fires in the winter. The floor of the operations office was littered with shattered glass from the tall windows that once let the shift foreman look out on all sides and the steel fences separating the bathrooms from the work floor were rusted red over.

Christopher Rier bolted through the derelict shipping center in fear of his life. Behind him, across the grass, past an abandoned office complex, men were coming. Men with guns, and knives, and rifles. He believed they were men, but they were relentless. It felt as if he’d been running for days. He couldn’t say how long he’d been running. His cell phone was dead, and before it had died he’d had no reception. He was sweaty, and sticky. His thighs burned with exertion, and he was tired to the bone.

Long planks lay ahead of him, bridging the gap between the work floor and some further offices, once joined by a catwalk that lay rusted feet bellow. He stumbled across the planks unsteadily and dropped down to shove them off when he reached the other side. Any time he could buy himself was that much more time alive.

He walked into what looked like it had been a printing press, parts of the wooden floor rotted through. 

_What did you need a press for in a shipping center?_ his mind wondered idly. _Printing box labels?_

Long strips of heavy, mildewed paper were falling out of their shelving against one wall, their cascade captured in still life by the fiction between them. There were stairs leading up to an attic, and he tried them, hoping to hide, but they were soft and unsteady.

He rounded that central staircase. A skull lay at his feet. He crouched down, reaching hesitantly towards it, and saw it was the skull of a cat. Beyond it was the remains of another fire. Some hungry man’s desperate meal. Christopher walked past the scene, through the cobwebbed, silent presses, running his fingers along one’s metal edge. A thin, dried log of human excrement lay on the ground, but beyond it was a chute to the fields outside, sunlight streaming up from it as it couldn’t stream through the dirty windows.

Christopher had no choice, and he jumped down. The rusted metal sliced into his calf at the bottom and his leg bled wet into his shoe as he set off across the field, the wide building between him and his pursuers.

“Please,” he pleaded to no one. No one listened. “Please, just give me _something_.”

It was a long run through the field with blood spurting down his leg until his left shoe squelched with every footfall. A lone blue car cruised down the road ahead and to Christopher’s amazement and to his horror it rolled to a stop.

Either it was some good Samaritan seeing a solitary young man in a panicked dash through the tall grass, and thought ‘Maybe he needs a ride somewhere,’ or his pursuers had phoned for help and he’d been headed off at the pass.

The second possibility didn’t matter, because Christopher was a little light headed from the blood loss and the pain in his leg and didn’t think he’d make it all that much further in any other direction. He staggered up to the two men waiting for him on the road.

“Help me. Please, call the police. There’s some psychopaths behind me and they’ve got guns and god knows what else,” he breathed as he stumbled up to them. It was only when he stopped, breathing shaky, that he saw the sawed off shotgun in the slighter one’s hands, hanging at ease at his side.

Christopher’s eyes went wide; he collapsed to his knees where he stood.

“I can’t…I can’t even do this,” he pleaded pathetically, sweat dripping from his brow. “Just end it, already.”

The shorter of the two men straightened up from the side of the car.

“You serious? After we came all this way?”

Christopher looked up to see him shaking his head.

“Get in the car, kid,” the man told him, bringing the shotgun to bear, gesturing towards the back passenger door with the barrel, as his partner rounded the front of the battered old thing to climb in the driver’s side.

“Keep the gun on him,” the taller one said, behind the wheel of the car as they peeled away from the curb. His eyes flicked to Christopher in the rearview mirror, regarding him warily. They might have saved him, but they didn’t appear to trust him in any way.

Christopher stared from one man to the other. He wasn’t sure what was going on. _Deliverance_ came to mind, and he registered, vaguely, that he could be sodomized by worse looking people, except he wasn’t very interested in being sodomized by anybody -- only slightly less interested in that than ending the day shot up and beginning his slow decomposition.

He sat back against the seat. Now that he was in the air conditioning of the car, the sweat was really pouring, trying to cool the sunburned heat of his body. He took a few minutes to catch his breath.

“…are the two of you with him, or not?” he asked, a little hesitant, facing the dark barrel of the shotgun.

The gunman wet his lower lip and looked towards the driver, an expression Christopher couldn’t read.

“…Both. Sort of,” the driver said, enigmatically. He glanced back for a moment when they paused at a stop sign. He turned around in the seat and made direct eye contact with Chris. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

Big guy, bad hair, brown eyes…. Christopher was completely sure he had never seen the guy before in his life. 

But there was something else.

He squinted. He turned his head a little to the side.

“…yeah.” He smiled slowly. “ _Yeah_. I think I do.”

Sam nodded and turned back to the wheel.

\----

_Four days earlier:_

Sam leaned against the side of the Mazda, looking up at the building they were parked next to. It was a motel, located in middle Pennsylvania. It was a small town, like normal, and Sam didn’t even know what supernatural disturbance had hit them, but he knew that it was gone now. 

They’d called their father, trolling down the I-95 at lazy speeds. Or, rather, Dean had called their father. There had been a lot of talking at first, demands for where they’d been, what they’d been doing, what they’d been thinking, but eventually, after Dean refused to get into it on the phone, a location had obviously been given, because, now, here they were.

Sam watched his brother move towards a motel room door, and he stayed back by the car. The combination of him and his father hadn’t been so great the last few times they had all met up. Sam and Dean had decided, during their drive, that Dean’d go talk to John first.

It was a long walk, for Dean, from the car to that door. His most recent interactions with John hadn’t had a lot on Sam’s. His biggest, his _only_ advantage, as far as he figured, was that John wasn’t thinking about killing him. He rapped his knuckles against the motel room door, one thumb tucked in his pocket and apprehension in his stomach.

John opened the door. He looked at his son, standing in front of him, then raised his head to his other son, leaned against the car, a few yards away from the entrance. He and Sam regarded one another for a moment, and John jerked his head to indicate that Sam could come in. Sam nodded in acknowledgement, but didn’t move away from the car. John paused, then moved into the room, giving his eldest space to enter.

Dean followed him inside, pushing the door shut as he passed.

“He still hasn’t told me what you said to him, last time,” he admitted, glancing back over his shoulder, towards the closed door, towards the parking lot. 

“Don’t remember half of it.” John sat down heavily in one of the chairs in the room, sighing. “I was…upset.” His eyes flicked to Dean. “It was along the lines of--…I explained in more detail what he was. I talked about what you told me. What you two have been doing.” He spoke with that calm, the calm that John managed to hold even in the worst of situations. It didn’t change the tiny flinch of muscle at the corner of his eye, the wince of pain when he looked at his son.

Dean dropped his gaze to the dingy motel carpet. The memory of Sam’s body was as close as that morning, long arms and legs holding him close while they slept, and his tongue had been in Sam’s mouth, and his hand had been in Sam’s sweats. John didn’t know, but John had the idea.

“I know we blew you off. It was just…It was a lot, all at once.”

He couldn’t say he was sorry when he wasn’t.

“…I figured that.” John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands linked. “Tried to contact you, but I knew I wouldn’t be hearing back, maybe for awhile, maybe for forever. It’s good, though. That you came back.” John paused, then looked up at Dean again. “You two alright?”

Dean searched for the words. He could guess there were a lot of things John didn’t want to hear.

“This week? This week, we’re alright. Takin’ it day by day.” 

Dean wasn’t sure what ‘alright’ looked like for a Winchester. Most of the time, he called it a win when they weren’t scraping the bottom of the barrel.

John nodded slowly, sitting back in his chair. He turned his head up. He rubbed his hands together. 

“Sam…How is he?” he finally managed to ask, looking a bit uncomfortable, but hiding it well.

“He’s stressed out. He was fallin’ apart, for awhile.” Dean remembered the table, splintering against the wall, cracking the plaster. “…he’s got it together, right now.” Dean’s wandering eyes caught his father’s gaze, and held it. “We still wanna go after this bastard.”

“I thought you would,” John nodded. “Sam--…he still willing to work with us on this?” It wasn’t the same as asking Sam to be his son again. It wasn’t the same at all. But John was never someone to not take advantage of something that’d give him a lead, and Sam was that advantage.

He was also an unstable element.

He was also John’s golden son, the boy he’d always had such great hopes for.

“Nothing’s changed, Dad. This thing still tried to kill us, back in November. The thing still murdered his girlfriend…. He’s on the same page we are.”

“…I don’t doubt that. What I really meant is, is he still willing to work with me?” He asked the questions unapologetically – there was no remorse in him for previous actions, only remorse for not having seen it sooner. John loved like a fire and hated like the burn of ice. He was like Sam in so many ways. The both of them lived like tomorrow was their final day. There was an endless divide between him and his youngest. Always had been, probably always would be. Definitely always would be now. There was no coming back from this, not really. “S’funny. I’ve been thinking…You ever think the reason Sam and I never could see eye to eye--…Could have been ‘cause of this?” The question tumbled out, as if John were musing on it right at that moment, though it was more a product of a month of solitude and too much to think about.

Dean stared at his father. He sighed and looked around for a place to sit down, pulled out one of the chairs and took a seat, running a hand through his straying hair.

“No disrespect, sir, but the reason you two don’t see eye to eye is because you’re the same kind of bull-headed. You think, and you think, and you think, and then you expect everybody to be on board with whatever it is you come up with, and with the two of you, it’s almost never the same thing.” Dean offered up his hands. “Then the yelling.” Dean bit his lower lip. He was frank with Sam, but not with his father. He shrugged a little. “The thing you didn’t see eye to eye on was if Sam got to be boring, do law school, marry a girl and nine to five it…. Face it. He reads. He geeks. He drinks those Californian, flavored coffee, half-milk frothy metrosexual things at Starbucks. You never liked it.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Dean, I don’t think the demon wanted that for Sam, either.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “S’still hard for me to talk to you, when you’re being like this. Not our kinda talking.” He paused and let his hand drop. “Honest to god Dean. I’m worried. Have been since I found out about this, have been since I found out…since you told me what you and Sam have been--…Have been since we got to Sam, since I talked to him, saw the way I hurt him. Have been since you two left together. I’m worried about Sam, because god damnit he’s my boy, he’s been my son his whole life and I can’t just look the other way and forget that…But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. Dean…That day, when Sam’n I talked. I couldn’t help but think…That maybe he did this to you. I feel like I’m losing my children.” He spoke frankly, like a boulder that would fall straight down a mountain no matter the barriers people put in place. Just like Sam spoke, only where Sam worried what others would think, worried what they would say, John remained unblinking. Unflinching.

Dean swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. He didn't feel like the right man for this job. Maybe that was the man waiting out by the car, who had a lot more words in him, more eloquent words in him. Maybe there was nobody who could field the conversation Dean was having with his father with ease.

Had his father told Sam that? He asked himself. Had his father told Sam their sex was all on his head? Had that been working its way to the back of Sam's mind for weeks?

His tenuous mood soured. His words spilled out, colored with affront.

"Do I _ever_ get to make a choice by myself with you? You said 'our kinda talkin'.' I remember our kinda talkin'. You talk. Sometimes, I put somethin' in. You tell me if it's right or you tell me it's wrong, and I shut up and buckle down. That's our kinda talkin'. And now I mouth off a way you don't like, it's because Sam _did_ somethin' to me? 

"I know you’re talkin' about more than that. I know you're talkin' about…everything. But don't talk like you know all about me. Don't talk like I didn't think I'd hurt you, like I didn't _choose_. Just because I never asked you for anything don't mean I've never wanted anything. I just never wanted it enough…not till now.

"You can disapprove of me. You can not be proud of me. Hell, you can be disgusted with me. You can worry I turned out some sick freak. But I'd rather you lose me 'cause you don't _want_ me than you thinkin' I went from your puppet to Sam's." He was gesturing vaguely and intensely with his hands. He realized it, made fists, and let them hit his knees, solid and still, and then his fingers spread out to hold them, he smiled sick and sorrowful and apologetic. "…hell, I dunno if _I'd_ want me."

John shook his head and rubbed his eyes, listening to his son's tirade.

"Didn't want to get into this..." He sighed out, at the inevitability of familial conflict. "I'm not looking to chase you two away again." It was still difficult to keep his mouth shut though, when he was used to dictating his boy's lives, and when they seemed determined to dig themselves into holes.

"I never saw you as a puppet, Dean. You're my son. You're my second. You're the only person I really trust to have my back. I know to some, to Sam, that comes off like I wanna control you, but that isn't it. I thought you understood that." He sat back again. Sam was the one he was used to challenging him, forcing him to put words together to express what he was thinking. Dean was usually on the same page as him. 

"I don't even begin to know how to approach half the stuff that's come up on us. You understand where I'm coming from? You understand why I'm seeing things the way I'm seeing them? Dean..." He rubbed his eyes again, unsure of how to look at his first born when he said this. "Can you see the way it looks? Finding out that one of my children is part of all this? Finding out he's something not quite us? Finding out what you two have been doing together? I've learned to connect lines in this job. I want to know if you can see that line like I can."

Dean slumped back against the seat, his mind working through John's words, his own words seared across his mind.

For somebody arguing Sam's influence over him, he sounded a lot like Sam did when he argued with their father. 

If he heard it, John did, too. 

"...shit."

John watched his son's face as he began to walk the line of logic that John had found weeks ago. The oldest of the remaining Winchester's had always had his talent there, in figuring out the secrets of the paranormal. They worked in mostly straight lines, going from one point to another. He could see the way the dots all came together.

Most of the time.

This one though, this demon. Even he was struggling to keep up with Its moves, Its plans. All he could do now was deal with the direct repercussions on his family.

He stood up slowly, still feeling old, still feeling like there were weights holding his shoulders down.

"I'm going to see why Sam hasn't come in...I got another room. I'd like you to stay there. Sam can stay in the other bed in this room. I...While you're with me, I don't want any of this--..." He struggled for words that were delicate in a situation that was decidedly not, and besides, he had never been the most delicate of men. "I just don't want you two together like that while I'm here."

Dean nodded, grudging consent.

A night or two alone suddenly didn't sound so bad.

He was too close. 

Too close to Sam, but too close to John, too.

He could make out some of the lines John was drawing, see a handful of the conclusions his father had been drawing that he was too caught up to examine, himself. That was because of Sam, because of the strong way he felt about him. He understood that. He couldn't say if that was unnatural. Five minutes alone with John and he was starting to see things his father's way. Maybe he was fighting off demonic influence in his father's presence. That was possible. Maybe.

Maybe he was a chump with no opinions of his own.

John walked to the door of the room, looking back out into the parking lot. Sam had wandered from the Mazda a little bit, but was still in the parking lot. He looked back when he heard his father call his name.

He moved towards the room slowly.

"Why'd you stay out here?" John asked as Sam approached, and his youngest shrugged a little. It reminded him of Sam's teenaged years, but he declined to comment. 

The less was said between them the better. John wasn't entirely sure when he'd go off into accusing Sam of all sorts of things. He'd tried to deal with it all in the last month, had found some kind of quiet ground about it. Most days he still vacillated between grief, anger, blame, and love.

\----

_Two days earlier:_

Dean thumbed open his hamburger, one of those monster things from Hardees, a burger to eat with both hands. The scent of grilled cow and bleached white bread stirred the hunger in his stomach to noise. He glanced up as John slid his fries across the table.

"We got those...little ketchup packets?"

Sam passed his brother some of the packets he grabbed, because Dean always wanted them and always forgot to grab them, so Sam always made sure to pick up a bunch.

Sam's hand brushed Dean's just slightly as he gave him the packets. It was brief and nothing beyond a totally normal touch, but it just served to remind him that they hadn't slept in the same bed the last two nights, nor had they kissed or anything else.

It was to be expected, given their awkward situation. 'Dad, I'm gay' was a far cry from 'Dad, I'm incestuous'.

"Thanks," Dean mumbled, eyes flickering to Sam's. He set them by his fries, and then ripped the corner off the first one, emptying viscous red stuff into a gooey pile on a napkin.

They ate quietly. Not that that was any different from anything else the last two days. They'd been doing _everything_ quietly.

Dean wondered if John and Sam had talked. He wondered if they argued. He didn't know. His room wasn’t next door. Even now, it was John and Sam together, Dean on the opposite side of the table.

Dean wasn't used to that.

Every brush of shoulders was an awkward thing. Well, for Sam it was. John remained still, as if nothing in the world could move him.

Sam knew that wasn't true, from the way his father's face had crumpled a month ago, but it still took a lot to bring John Winchester to his emotional knees.

Good to know that his sons were the ones who had hurt him the most.

Sam felt like everyday he was ripping into his father fresh, making everything worse for him, but he knew why he was here, why he'd come back.

"...what happens next?" Sam asked finally, gaze flicking briefly to his dad.

Dean was relieved, but not surprised, they hadn’t brought it up without him.

"I spent a lot of my time looking for you two," John responded, picking the onions and pickles and other things off his hamburger, until nothing was left but the meat. "I've heard of a lot more possessions recently, even more than before, but I'm still working on our next move. There might be another kid, like in Salvation, down in Ohio. That’s where we’re headed."

"And me?"

"You?" John paused, turning to look at his youngest, raising an eyebrow. "What about you, Sam?"

"...I want to go after this thing."

"You asking me if I trust you?"

Sam didn't respond, just looked at his food.

"...I don't. Not really. Not knowing what I do...Still." John sighed and turned back to his own food, all the men at the table determined to avoid eye contact. "We gotta work together on this...I want to trust you, but I can't depend on you to not...Switch sides."

"Yeah." Sam grimaced, but spoke lowly. "I get that."

Dean bit off a mouthful of his two-thirds pound burger and worked it between his teeth, felt it gum up threateningly at the back of his mouth. He picked up his soda and taking a sip to get it soggy when he realized it was a bigger bite than god intended the human mouth for, trying to look like a guy _not_ about to choke.

He didn't have any constructive input, but he watched the two of them, when they weren't looking his way. John, as haggard as Dean had ever seen him, and Sam, a little on edge. 

Most of his life, he'd been a ping pong ball in play between them. He was starting to recognize that, but he’d hit the net and rolled off the table. Right now, he wasn’t on anybody’s side.

Sam glanced up at Dean as Dean did some kind of crazy internal dance with his food, and he took a bite of his own, though he wasn't feeling all that hungry.

He was half way through swallowing when the migraine hit. It was more than a normal headache, and even though it'd been half a year since his last vision (aside from the incident in the alley up in Maine), he knew what that heralded. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a quiet grunt.

"What is it?" John asked, pausing and looking at his youngest.

Sam glanced at him, and was suddenly reticent to deliver very physical evidence to his lack of humanity, and shook his head.

"Nothing, just a headache." He got up from their booth, sliding out and moving towards the bathroom. "I'll be right back."

_The smell of grass in the summer heat and the stench of blood. Hands and knees in the dirt; a drop of sweat falling from a damp nose; heavy footsteps behind._

Sam stumbled half way to the bathroom and almost bumped into a waitress. He managed to make it to the door, though, pushing himself inside with some effort.

Dean swallowed the last of his hamburger and pressed his palm against the table, ready to stand. He recognized that sudden discomfort, the pain that could leave Sam disoriented, although it had been a long time. When he saw Sam almost trip, he got up from the table, the chair scraping against the linoleum floor. He shared a look with his father.

"...It happens." A shrug. "I'm gonna see if he's okay."

_Grass; blood; fingernails digging in the gritty soil. A spooked bird flushed from the brush, flapping for altitude. Heat waves rolling off the road in the distance._

_"You heard me. Get up."_

Sam leaned back against the tiled wall of the bathroom, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly, not exactly trusting his feet to hold him up.

He tried to watch the vision, despite the pain, the light flaring bright and hurting his eyes.

_Sweat falling to hit the dirt; the huddled figure; the long barrel of a gun. Heat waves rippling over asphalt. A sign, green and white: Obion County Line._

_Gunfire, explosive in the silence, startling more birds._

Dean followed Sam into the restroom, and he gripped his shoulder, waiting patient and concerned at the edge of his space.

Sam's head was bowed, and he felt things begin to fade, though he knew it'd come back. Visions liked to hit him over and over again.

When he raised his head, he saw his brother standing there and recognized the weight of his hand on his shoulder.

"...had a vision."

Dean nodded, looking Sam over careful.

"I figured. You okay? I thought those things'd dried up."

Sam took a deep breath, letting his head loll back against the wall.

"They did. Came back, though." He paused, then let his head roll forward again, and he held out his hands, palms up. "Look at this." He looked down at his palms. The left one had some of the rapidly fading henna on it -- it still stood out clearly against his skin, just not as dark as before, whereas the right palm was completely blank.

Dean slid his palm beneath Sam's clean hand, lifting it to inspect it.

He traced his fingers where he remembered the marks in Sam's skin, and his expression darkened. 

"This just happen?"

"Up in Maine...I was trying to...figure it all out, but then we met back up with Dad, and I haven't had a moment alone with you since." Sam watched Dean's hand in his. He moved a little closer, until he was in Dean's space, that sort of intimate, personal space that only two people who were sleeping together would happily stand in. "It touched a ghost...and she--...I don't know how to describe it. It was like she burnt up from the inside. And then the tattoo was gone...Dean. I think...I can kill the dead." He looked uncomfortable. "After that, all the visions, they came back."

Dean closed his hands around Sam's, squinting up at him suspiciously.

"Slow down, there. You tangled with a ghost? ... _I_ need to communicate better?"

Sam made a face.

"It was...complicated. I was trying to figure out how to bring it up...It was the nurse, from the hospital. Susan Coechiro."

"Maine's halfway across the country from.... Hold up. You mean she was haunting you?" The pieces began locking into place in Dean's mind. "And Jess...is she...?"

"Yeah...I didn't know she was, though...The nurse was why I wasn't dreaming." Sam looked down at his hands, still held in Dean's. "Jess is still...She's still..." Sam's eyes darted up to a completely empty space of air to the right, then back at Dean. "She's still here."

Dean followed Sam's eyes, like he was expecting to see Jessica where she wasn't there before. He looked a long minute before his gaze returned to Sam, his expression sinking through realizations.

" _Dude_. Your girl was watchin' us while I put it on you? 'cause _that's_ not creepy."

Sam made a little grunt of discomfort, because that was a really disturbing thought that he hadn't realized before.

"Thanks, man, I didn't think of that, now I'm going to be self conscious every time we--...Speaking of which." He leaned in suddenly, as the idea occurred to him, having been quite separated from his brother for the last two days.

Dean turned his head to the side, modestly, regretfully, shutting Sam down. He chuckled, thumb brushing over Sam's knuckles. 

"Man, I am gonna be so randy by the time we..." He stopped himself, sharing a look, smirking confidentially, already conspiratorially close, and his eyes flickering over Sam's tall body. "What am I talkin' about? When am I not?"

Sam looked confused when he was evaded, listening to Dean's words, still not getting why his brother had ducked out of kissing him.

His nose lingered near Dean's forehead, looking down at him.

"What _are_ you talking about? Why'd-..." He cut off, his head jerking back when the bathroom door opened. John stood in the door way, his expression neither here nor there.

He expected it, but it was a slap in the face to see it first hand.

"Boys," he said in the warning tone he often had when he was admonishing them for doing something they knew they shouldn't be.

Dean let go of Sam's hand, arms lowering stiffly to his sides...and he was still standing very close to Sam. He took a self-conscious step back, open mouthed, trying not to babble an apology and only further incriminate himself. His eyebrows rose a little higher every second he delayed, and he forced out, evasive and pitchy:

"...Sam had a vision."

"Oh?" John leaned against the door frame, not really bothered that he was blocking the only entrance to the restaurant's bathroom. After all, his boys didn't appear to mind being inappropriately close when anyone, including their father, could walk in. His eyes moved to Sam, demanding answers without words.

"It's still not clear," Sam managed to get out, his hands drifting back to his sides uselessly. John raised an eyebrow at this answer, and Sam tried to explain better. "It's...Sometimes they take awhile to come through. This one was...Someone was running. He was being chased by something. By someone else, actually, I think."

Dean tried to stave off his sudden, intense interest in the wall mounted hand dryer. 

_Fuck. And after I promised._

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and encouraged Sam on.

"Anything to, uh, place it...?"

"A sign..." Sam lifted a hand to his forehead, rubbing it faintly, still feeling the headache when he tried to concentrate on the vision. Not to mention he was a little thrown, mentally, and since his concentration was off, he was starting to get Dean's thoughts again. He was getting distracted. Promised _what_? Was that why Dean'd turned his head?

So not important right now.

"...Obion. Obion County."

Dean quirked a brow at Sam.

"Sounds like a job for Google." He looked edgewise at his father, for a second apology drifted despondent over his expression, and then he wet his lips and tried to focus, forcing nonchalance, elaborating under his breath, "...see if we can steal some wifi."

"Let's get to work," John said, turning and walking out of the door, letting it swing shut. He didn't need to say anything to let them know they were expected to follow. It wasn't like they could go back to their previous position, given that now their father knew exactly what they were doing.

Sam still pushed it.

"Dean, did you promise Dad something?"

Dean watched the door until the swinging stilled and then looked up at Sam, looking cornered.

"Not to jump your bones while he's around." He searched Sam's accusative expression. "C'mon. That's fair, right?"

"Yeah...I mean, it's not like I wanna make out in front of him or anything...But you're not even gonna let me--..." He gestured vaguely, referring to the dodged kiss.

Dean pleaded _miserable_ with his eyes.

"You're not talkin' to a person with a lot of self control."

Sam nodded a little, letting his shoulders slump. It was fair enough. He was about to say 'Yeah, but you could have told me', except he hadn't told Dean about the incident in Maine, and neither of them had much of an opportunity to talk to one another anyways.

"...yeah. Well, we better go back out there." He moved towards the bathroom door.

Dean shared another long look with the hand dryer, slapped his pocketed hands against his sides with a frustrated resignation, and followed Sam out.

\----

Yesterday:

_Sneakers pounding on dry soil; a blood-soaked leg whipped by tall grass; sun, unrelenting; the shifting river of asphalt ahead; Obion County Line; breath ragged in a shuddering chest; sneakers slapping on asphalt, now, on grass, again, ankle twisting, and then the fall._

_Two dark figures distant in the grass, warped by the waves off the road. Closer. Closer. Closer. The prone figure exhausted on the ground; a boot scuffing the dirt. A voice._

_"You sure he's some kinna mind witch, Rich? Now'd be the time I'd whip out."_

_Another voice, insensitive._

_"That's not how it works with our boy." Sneering lips. "You gonna die face down in the dirt? Get up."_

_Scuffling; straining. The smell of grass in the summer heat and the stench of blood. Hands and knees in the dirt; a drop of sweat falling from a damp nose; heavy footsteps behind._

Sam woke in his bed, his father already awake in the other one, giving him the expectant look of ' _explain_ '.

Sam held his head in his hands for a few minutes. 

He tried to think back to the deluge of visions he'd experienced in the alleyway, after burning Susan Coechiro's ghost. He knew there was more in there.

He remembered seeing a face, and not trusting it. He remembered the boy's face, whoever he was. He tried to connect that with this vision. A witch? A witch hunt? No, that wasn't quite right.

It wasn't just a couple of backwards hicks. They were prepared. They knew what they were doing.

"...I think I'm seeing someone being hunted. By players like us. He's running from them."

John rested his hands on his knees.

"Who is he?"

"I don't know."

"Do you know why he's being hunted?"

"No."

John ran a hand through his hair and sighed. 

"Not giving us a lot to go on, Sam," he looked over to his youngest, looking small and alone in the bed, for all his long limbs and broad shoulders. Sam was unaccustomed to going uncomforted. He'd always had Dean to make sure he was alright. John and Dean, they were used to taking falls and just weathering it. Sam was used to someone coming along to pick him up again.

John didn't make any move to help. If he began to forgive the boy, there'd be no going back. He'd wash over the fact that he was a demon, reason away the fact that his wife was dead because of him. It would be all too easy to accept Sam as his son again.

Like so many other times in his life, John found he had to chose between his vengeance and something just as precious. He'd chosen vengeance when he had two small boys who needed him; he chose it, now.

"Might as well get up, then, start looking into this," John got off his bed without stretching or yawning, walking around to the coffee table where some books were stacked. "You said before that you only have visions when you get close to something having to do with this demon, right?"

"Yeah," Sam shifted his legs on to the floor, lifting his hands to rub his eyes blearily. He was exhausted. He really just wanted to go to sleep. 

"So, it stands to reason this has something to do with it." John glanced over at his son, then back down at his new journal, flicking through the pages. "You had visions about another boy like you before, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did. Max Miller. His mom died like...like, well. Like what you saw. He had abilities like me...It was clear that we were connected somehow. And the demon said that it had plans for me, and for any child like me. It stands to reason that there're...others."

"So you think maybe this kid being hunted is like you?" John paused in his flicking, shifting to sit down on one of the wooden chairs.

"It makes sense...I mean, if he's like me," Sam carefully skirted the word 'demon'. There were moral issues here that bothered Sam. Such as the one where he was a demon, and hunters _hunted_ demons. Such as the bit where, by all rights, John should kill him. That's what they did with the supernatural.

There was also the bit where, since John had decided not to kill him, he now had to decide if he was willing to kill other humans, if he knew they were demons like himself. That was a moral dilemma right there.

Who knew that demons could have moral dilemmas?

"...Sam," John's low voice woke him from his reverie.

He looked over at his father and looked a little pained.

"...I really didn't mean to."

John went still, and for a moment, that sentence hung in the air, and Sam didn't know exactly what he meant, or why he'd said it.

"...I know," John finally responded, looking down at his journal. "I know you didn't, Sammy..." They went quiet after that, and Sam didn't move over to his father. He could tell that the older man was grieving. He gave him his privacy, even in this life where there was no room for privacy.

\----

"You sure we wanna save this guy?" Dean looked from John to Sam, panic passing fleeting behind his eyes as the moral ambiguities of the thing caught up with him right after his foot went in his mouth.

Sam shrugged a little. He looked stiff and uncomfortable.

"What choice do we have?" He remembered the sound of sneakers slapping pavement, the rasp of breath in a throat, the heady panic and the knowledge that death, steady, unyielding death was following in the shape of two human beings. It made Sam hunch up a little more. He'd never been hunted before. It was like that experience with the Benders, only about one thousand times worse. "If nothing else, he might know something we don't."

Dean nodded acknowledgement.

"Pick him up. Cozy up. Find out what he knows." Whatever Sam's immortal nature, Dean knew he'd kind of lumped him in his own 'Sam' category. Maybe Sam would do something heinous before they reached their destination, but maybe Dean didn't care. He'd promised Sam nothing bad would happen to him; Sam didn't promise not do anything bad. It was a selfish distinction.

"We have to be careful, though...He could be dangerous," Sam shrugged a little. He knew that he, too, could be dangerous, but he was determined to ignore that possibility.

"You said he gets nailed by hunters like us," Dean pointed out.

"Yeah, but if we're picking him up, then that's not going to happen."

"I just mean...if we gotta, sounds like we can."

"...kill him, you mean?" Sam's head jerked back a little, and he looked surprised.

Dean’s jaw firmed grim.

"Sam, I trusted your lead with Miller. Demon, human? The guy was a whack job. I'm just sayin', if it goes south, we can't bet the farm on another freak adrenaline rush."

Sam made a bit of a face, but there was nothing he could say to that without going into thoroughly uncomfortable territory.

Dean looked to their father.

"How long until we need to be in Ohio?"

John rubbed the back of his hand as he thought things through.

"Next few days..." he sighed out. "This thing you saw, any idea when it's going down?" He asked Sam, looking at his youngest.

"No," Sam shook his head. "It's...I mean I see these things, but it's hard to tell when it'll happen..."

John sighed again, pausing to think things through.

"Listen...You boys should head out to Tennessee...Find out what you can. I'll keep on to Ohio. You keep your phones on, day and night. I'll do the same."

"Yes, sir," Dean consented. 

Dean didn't love the idea of John going after the Demon, just himself and the Colt. He'd filled him in on everything while Sam lay comatose in the hospital -- how they'd found the family, how they'd saved them, why they hadn't been able to stop him. It was a bad time to split up, danger at both destinations...

Dean told himself he was only human to be a little relieved to go somewhere he could just hold hands with his...boyfriend.

Sam's eyes flickered to Dean, then over to his father, and he nodded his consent. He was glad to not have any issues with being able to go after this kid.

Sam had learned not to ignore his visions.

\----

_Today:_

Christopher gaped disbelieving at Sam, edging back into the back seat of the Mazda, feet hanging out the door.

"No. No, no, no, no, no. You're confusing me with someone who _isn't_ a pussy."

Sam sighed.

"Look, do you _really_ want to bleed out?" He reached out, grabbing the ankle of Chris's good leg, keeping him from scooting back too far. "You don't really have a choice here."

Dean loomed behind Sam, grinning like a bully, and pointed out congenially:

"I bet you can barely feel your legs by now."

Chris wilted under his smile, and looked back warily at the wickedly curved needle in Sam's hands.

"Don't they give people whiskey for this in the movies?"

Dean looked at their car, and he looked at his shoes, and dug out his wallet and flipped through his billfold.

"High Roller here thinks we can afford _whiskey_."

"Whiskey doesn't do anything, anyways. Just makes you drunk. It's not like it'll hurt any less. You're just more likely to yell about it." Sam tugged Chris down the backseat with a sound of exasperation. "You're a demon, right? Why are you such a--..." he waved his hand in a general motion that meant 'wimp'. Still, Sam pulled out one of his knives, cutting up Chris's jeans, from his ankle to his knee, pushing the material away to get a good look at the wound. 

Chris hissed through his teeth as strands of soggy denim slipped out of his lacerated skin.

"Because the adrenaline wore off and my _leg_ is in _pain_ ," he groaned pathetically. His body trembled. He clutched the edge of the car seat. He studied Sam, reaching up to brush loose strands of blonde hair from his eyes. He steadied his voice as much as he could. "...you don't remember, yet, do you?"

Sam shook his head.

"I don't want to, so I'm not going to." Sam put the knife in his mouth, holding it in his teeth without any fear of the carefully sharpened edge. He rolled the denim until it was held out of the way, then dropped the knife back into his hand. "Hey Dean, grab me the iodine?" He asked, peering into the wound under the afternoon sun. There were little flecks of rusty metal in the flesh, and Sam held up his knife, using the tip to flick pieces of it out.

Dean dug the iodine out of the medical bag and handed it over, while the boy’s breath hitched and halted with the discomfort of field medicine.

"You're a weird one," Chris murmured breathlessly. "I didn't know it worked that way."

"I don't think it does." Sam reached back, taking the iodine from his brother. "But I'm stubborn, and I've been trained to fight demons all my life. This is just another one to fight, in a different way." He pulled out a cloth, dousing it in the iodine. He didn't feel too much regret at the pained noises Chris made when he cleaned out the wound, or when he began suturing it up. It was deep, but not long. It would only take a few stitches.

Chris moaned hurt _ahh_ noises down in his throat through stuttering breaths that slowly broke into pained and suffocated laughter. He heaved for air, doubled over and chuckling.

"That's awesome. Man, that's great." He looked up pale at Dean. "Who's this guy? No, wait...don't tell me." He straightened, stretching a hand out to grip the front seat of the car, and he ran it over the upholstery, and reached back to touch the median between the bucket seats. "...oh, man, you're _gay_. Awesome."

Sam opened his mouth to shout back 'He's my _brother_ ', but then realized that wouldn't really help his situation. Instead he scowled and jabbed the needle deeper into Chris's flesh than was entirely necessary.

" _Ow_. Hey. Ow!" Chris didn't seem to find it so funny any more, and tried to compose himself, starting to sweat again, and this time from the pain. "So you guys hunt demons...but you _know_ I'm a demon..."

"Just your lucky day," Dean assured him. 

"It's just...it's funny. It's really funny." Chris shook his head. "I don't think I signed up for this."

Sam tied off the last stitch, twisting the taut line together to hold. He used his knife to cut it, shifting back and standing up.

"We're hunters, just like those people chasing you. Believe me when I say that we'll do our job if you give us reason to." Sam tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, acting a little more certain about that than he felt, but Chris was just the right amount of annoying to goad him on anyways. "Just keep quiet and out of our way."

Chris slowly sobered, exhausted and weak, scrutinizing Sam again, and then Dean.

"...you're really serious?"

Dean cocked his fingers in the shape of a gun.

"Like a bullet to the head." He pulled his hand up as he ‘fired’, mouthing ‘ _pow_.’

Distressed realizations passed over Chris’s face.

"Not like...ha ha, mess-with-the-new-guy, frat hazing 'serious'?"

"Welcome to our world," Sam muttered.


	17. Chapter 17

Sam's back met with the brick of the motel wall. They were outside. Someone could come strolling down the breezeway at any moment. He didn't really care.

He and Dean had become comfortably entwined with one another over the past few weeks, traumatic sex and emotional interludes aside. It was too much to go from being naked in bed with one another for a week, straight to sleeping in separate rooms and being unable to touch.

That was why he didn’t complain when Dean pressed him up against a wall and tried to taste the back of his throat with his tongue. He didn't even care that they'd just deposited what was essentially a humanoid demon into the motel room, one they'd just saved from the hunters who had been rightfully trying to kill him, one that Sam had just sewed up.

Really? He wasn't thinking much beyond Dean, and the way his brother's lower lip always slipped between his own two, perfect for dragging his teeth over.

Dean grunted, pressed up against Sam's huge body, knee slipping between his legs, his hands holding Sam's head like Sam liked so much to do to him, because damn if Sam didn't love it when he held him down a little and Sam's big hands fisted in his jacket. It had started with a kiss, brief and firm, and now it was heavy and it was sloppy and Dean wanted sex, wanted to spread Sam's legs -- a beautiful sight every time, Sam offering it up.

"Can't he wait in the car?" Dean begged against Sam's mouth, still kissing him, thumbs caressing his cheeks, but not gentle. "...'cause I can be...ten minutes. I just need...ten minutes. You wouldn't believe what I could do with ten minutes."

"You hopeless romantic, you..." Sam muttered, but he didn't sound adverse to the idea. Dean's knee was between his own, holding his legs parted, and Dean's hands were against his face. He was leaning into his brother enthusiastically. "He'll totally run away...Besides, it'd be kind of obvious if we went in there and told him to go wait in the car."

"He _knows_ we have sex." Dean nipped at Sam's jaw, curled his fingers in Sam's hair and tugged just lightly. "And there's a question...how did he know we have sex?"

"Some kind of--..." Sam cut off when his head was tugged, and his jaw bitten. There was no reason for that to feel so good. "Some kind of power...I haven't asked him what he can...do, yet."

Dean drew back, a pleading, needy, hopeful crease in his brow.

"Hell, if it's telepathy, he can just watch TV. He’s at the party, either way."

Sam made a face.

"Man, I'm not having sex with you while someone's in the bed next to us..." It was probably bad that he took a second to debate that. Still, his hands crept down Dean's body, pressing his palms to his brother's hips and pushing them firmly against his own.

Dean let his head fall against Sam's shoulder, rolling his hips against his brother's, welcoming the contact, and he smiled like a kid, thrilled all over, hand cupping Sam's cheek, talking into his ear.

"Big talk from the stud humpin' me in public."

"Like you're totally innocent or something..." Sam grunted out. "Just...we can go into the bathroom." It would still be pretty obvious what was going on, but at least there'd be a door between them.

"Sam, if he's gonna bolt from the car, he's gonna bolt from the bedroom. You _sure_ he's gonna bolt?"

"I'm not _sure_ of anything. I'm not getting another vision, if that's what you mean...All I know is, if I were him, I'd bolt the minute our backs were turned."

Dean reluctantly let go of Sam's head, stepping back and blowing out hot air. A big part of him enjoyed all the shore leave he'd spent, just getting closer to Sam, but there was work. Work waiting for them in the hotel room, and he knew if he wanted to keep Sam, and not maybe end up with his gut split open on a ceiling, they had a job to finish.

"If I was him, that'd be me, too."

Sam let out a sound of frustration. He kept his fingers tightly knotted in the material of Dean's jacket, the leather old and pliable, and he held his brother so that he couldn't back away too far.

"Yeah..." There wasn't much else to say. He leaned down again, to nip at the corner of Dean's mouth. He paused for a moment. "...the car? I mean, we're parked right near the door...If he tried to leave, we could--..." Jump out of the backseat of the Impala naked. Okay, awkward. But still functional.

Dean sputtered into laughter, amusement bright on his face.

"Listen to you, man. Where was this hidin' when you had dibs on that cute...what was her name? That Sarah. I liked her."

"I don't do one night things." Beyond all the Jessica issues, beyond the fact that he simply couldn't take losing someone like that again (with Dean, he would be broken at losing him already, having sex with him or not), he just really didn't do the love 'em and leave 'em thing. "And it would have been, with her. We still would have gotten back in the car and driven away.... Just...doesn't do it for me." It wasn't hot, it wasn't sexy. It just wasn't a turn on to him. It was empty, shallow and hollow. It had no meaning. Sam tugged on Dean's hips again a little. "S'different with you."

Dean grinned, reaching up, brushing his thumb across Sam's lips. Sam's face was so earnest, even when he was horny.

"I'm not complainin'. Backseat of the car, it is. It'll be just like prom."

"...classy, Dean," Sam muttered, but he wasn't pulling away. He shifted away from the wall, having to move out from between it and Dean, then moved towards the Mazda. He made a little face. The backseat was smallish. It'd be...well. It'd be interesting.

\----

Chris stirred blearily on his bed when the hunters returned to the motel room, wan beneath the covers.

"Did you get any food?"

Dean flashed a grin his way.

"I had a couple calories." He peered at Chris in the dim light filtering through the curtains. "Why? You need somethin'?"

"...whenever you get dinner, I guess."

Sam sat down on the bed not occupied by Chris, his clothing a little rumpled.

"We'll pick up something later," Sam said, resting his elbows on his knees, feet still planted firmly on the floor as he looked at Chris. "So. Tell us what you know."

Chris looked apprehensively from Sam to Dean. Neither of them had a sympathetic face. He pulled the covers up a little.

"What do you mean?"

"What powers do you have? What do you remember? How did it happen? Anything. Just start talking," Sam was somewhat uncomfortable with how human this demon was. Unlike himself, Chris remembered. He was a demon, in spirit and in memory, but for some reason, he still had...humanity. It put Sam on edge.

It made everything fall into that chasm of moral ambiguity.

Chris shook his head weakly against the pillow.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I thought you guys were joking around."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"You're not big on pain. I'm not real big on screwin' around. Meet us in the middle."

"But I told you--"

"You knew we were havin' sex. Did I gay it up around you? Was my wrist limp?" Dean cracked his knuckles, nonchalant.

"...not really limp, no." Chris watched his hands.

"I saw it in your eyes,” Sam interrupted. “When I asked you if you knew who I was. You looked at me and you smiled. You knew exactly what I was talking about. You got exactly why it was ironic that I hunt demons," Sam listed off the reasons he knew Chris knew _exactly_ what they were talking about. "So, start talking."

"Psychometry," Chris offered, suddenly, ready to deal. "It's called...retrocognition. I see the past."

Dean lowered his hands and took a seat at the end of the bed. Chris relaxed a little beneath the comforter, loosening his grip on its edge.

"...I looked it up on the internet when it started. I didn't know what was happening. I thought...maybe it wasn't that weird, because people had words for it."

Sam could identify with the confusion, with the feeling of being lost. He remembered identifying with Max when he learned that they were the same.

Identification was dangerous though. He didn't _want_ to be the same as these people…things. 

"And then?" Sam prompted Chris to continue.

"I kept it to myself. For a long time. For a year. I tried to pretend it wasn't happening. But then I started to remember things. _Things_ , places...phrases. You gotta understand, I thought I was going crazy. I thought I was schizophrenic or something. I thought...all the memories I'd read off stuff were just the start of some total meltdown, and now I was making up this whole history...I...." His eyelids fluttered and he dozed against the pillow, swooning light headed. He struggled to focus.

"I'll get some water," Dean said, not sure the guy was playing them. He was almost as pale as the sheets. "Keep going."

"A couple days ago, I told my pastor," Chris continued quietly, looking weaker. "He's known me since my dad moved here, after the fire. I told him everything, about my powers, the thoughts I'd been having, these things I said to my grandmother...He told me he knew someone who could help me. He ratted me out."

Sam's body gave an involuntary jerk at the phrase 'after the fire', but he didn't say anything, just looked away. The faint, warm pleasure that had radiated from his skin after the interlude in the car was rapidly cooling now, thinking of darker, murkier things.

He watched Dean move to the bathroom, pouring a cup of water and returning to hand it to Chris.

"It's the blood loss," Sam explained. "You'll be feeling it less tomorrow."

Chris climbed unsteadily upright, propping a pillow up behind himself, and took the cup of water from Dean, whispering 'Thanks', unsure of the word. He sipped from it for a minute, and then looked up at Sam a little wild eyed.

"I'm not dangerous. I can't hurt people. I can't even throw a punch. I suck at sports. I've got a bachelor's in business. I mean...the worst I could do to somebody is bore them to death, maybe give them a stomach ache if I tried real hard to read 'em. You don't gotta kill me."

"Not while you're useful to us," Sam responded, surprised by the cold in his voice. He didn't know why he hated this kid so much. Just knew that he did.

"Shoulda saved your lies up for that one. That was pretty good," Dean complimented.

"Lies sell better when they're true." Chris dropped his eyes and stared down into his water.

Sam rose from the bed, moving to his bag to grab his sweats and night shirt, and a pair of handcuffs from the weaponry bag. He knew, at least, that this kid didn't have super strength, or anything like that. 

The one boon they had, it seemed, was that because the demons were in purely human bodies, they had only human physical attributes, and could be killed by anything a human could.

Sam cuffed one of Chris's hands to the bedpost, then walked into the bathroom to change.

Dean watched Chris sitting there finishing his water, phlegmatic, until that was a little boring. He eyed the television remote and picked it up.

"Hey, I can make you watch whatever I want." He clicked the set on. "How about... _Lifetime: Television for Women_?"

Chris glanced up, animation returning to his expression -- hopeful.

"That'd be okay."

Dean boggled.

"That was _so_ the wrong answer to that question."

Sam returned to the room shortly afterwards, moving around to the side of the other bed that was farthest from Chris. He lifted the covers and sat down, leaning back against the headboard. He glanced to the side at the other bed, at what he supposed was supposed to be a brother in arms, feeling gnawing contempt in his belly. He lay down and rolled over, facing the door to the room.

"You two hit it off so well, there's no room for me." Dean held his hands up. He clicked the television off and tossed the controller down by Sam. "Imma get on that dinner thing."

"Yeah..." Sam muttered. "That'd be good."

\----

John saw the lights began to flicker. The Colt felt heavy in the back of his waistband, like old responsibility. He moved towards the house, not at a run, but in a silent crouch, half jogging to make up the speed he lost for stealth.

His mind turned to his boys, often, even now, on what could be the evening of his revenge, because there were few days that he didn’t think of his boys, his Mary’s boys. He passed a pine tree, brushing the branches as he came to a stop, drops of rain spent that morning shimmering onto his shoulder as he disturbed the pines. It was dark, of course, because it always happened at night, but John had grown to moving in the dark in Vietnam, long before his years hunting the supernatural. 

He was near the house, and he could make out movement. He stayed still, though he felt time pressing down on him warningly. His eyes darted to the side, looking away from the movement to take advantage of the rods and cones in his peripheral vision that would afford him a better view in the dark than a direct gaze. Human -- or, at least, humanoid. Could be possessed. Could be the father of the household.

The movement jumbled, and John realized there were two figures there. He tensed and reached back, not for the Colt, but for the 9mm tucked in his back pocket. He pulled it out, flipping the safety off and holding it up as he crept forward. 

One of the figures stopped and John froze again, closer now and able to make them out better. The one that stopped seemed to have sensed something, as it was looking around wildly, and the other was listening. The smaller one could have been female, but it was difficult to tell. The lights flickered on and off, and he heard a scream come from the second story of the house. 

He cursed under his breath, but there was nothing he could do. The searching one froze suddenly. It looked straight at him through the foilage.

He was going to be too late.

\----

The next morning, Dean watched his cell phone sitting silent on the end table between the motel beds, lying in bed in the dim morning light, hoping to hear the electronic jangle to announce his father on the other end of the line. He'd called three times the night before, and all three times the phone rang through to the voicemail. Dean was ready to go to Ohio, but they had a demon on their hands, sleeping quiet with his hand cuffed above his head a few feet away, and reuniting him with his master sounded like a bad idea, losing him worse, because if the couldn't find a way to shoot the big guy on the spot, Chris was the best lead they had. He told himself John needed radio silence, needed stealth, and that John would call him back as soon as he could.

Sam slept peaceful next to him, heavy as a horse, or a cow, or some other huge piece of livestock. Dean's arm, stuck underneath him, was numb. Sam looked pretty fucking cute curled up and dozing, still-boyish face peaceful, the barest shadow of stubble on his jaw. Dean didn't want to move. Not yet. Almost, _almost_ wanted to shove Sam off the bed -- _that'd_ teach him -- but not this morning. He'd save it up for when more of Sam's days were good days.

He let Sam sleep and he eyed the phone.

It didn't take Sam much longer to wake. After all, both boys had been raised with obscenely early mornings, and both were light sleepers to boot. Usually, when one woke, the other woke soon after, the mere increase in heart rate enough to stir them.

Sam's eyes rolled a little as he came around, fluttering to open a second later, and they focused on Dean's face. When he didn't speak, or look away, Sam always had that unerringly direct look that he'd had as a child, the one that everyone other than Dean had always called 'creepy'.

Dean caught the flutter of Sam's eyelids and the slight shift of Sam's body weight as Sam stirred. He reached down to thumb a little sleep from Sam's eye, fingers careful.

"...Dad hasn't called."

Sam turned his head up into the motion, shutting his eyes, used to Dean cleaning the mucus from his eyes, though it hadn't happened in many years.

He paused, processing what Dean'd said.

"Could go either way," he finally replied, acknowledging that this could be very very bad, but also that it could simply be that their father wasn't in a position to call them.

"He's got until two o'clock." Dean's voice brooked no argument. They'd barely scraped a victory over the demon with the two of them and Sam's visions to lead them, and it wasn't half the victory they'd wanted.

Sam nodded a little, agreeing with Dean's decision.

"What do we do in the meantime?"

"Torture the captive?" Dean had to admit Chris didn't seem up for much torture. "...poke the captive," he amended gravely. "Poke him until he talks."

Sam snorted a little, and then his body shifted, close to Dean's. He let their legs wind lazily, bodies still heavy with slumber. He let a hand rest on his brother's waist. 

"What about...We haven't had a chance to talk. What about what happened in Maine?"

"The ghost bustin'?" Dean traced the barest brown line still etched in Sam's shoulder. "I'm gonna miss all your sexy tats." He reached down to turn over the hand against his waist, stroking his thumb across the pads of Sam's fingers. "This stuff Ruth wrote on you. They were some powerful symbols, right? I mean, they're real slow to fade. I'm pretty sure that's weird."

Sam shrugged a little, but not enough to dislodge Dean's finger.

"She said they'd last about six weeks..." Sam lifted his left hand from his brother's waist slowly, inspecting the rune drawn on his palm. "They sort of remind me of the pentacles in the Key of Solomon...But they're different. They're planetary, too, though, I can tell that..." he sighed and lowered his hand again. "But there're a lot of things she drew that are _familiar_ but not... _recognizable_."

Dean furrowed his brow, his tongue flickering over his lips.

"I don't got Ruth's phone number. Dad must. Is there.... How do people find this stuff out? Doesn't sound like a library trip."

Sam made a little face at the idea of talking to Ruth again.

"There're people. They collect books, really old ones...Like Bobby. He has a lot on demons and demonic possession. I mean...before, when we were young, I just used to read the texts that hunters had in their homes, while you and Dad were away." It was how he learned most of the symbology that he knew. Some of it had faded with time, but Sam had a pretty good memory. It was why he'd done so well at college, and on his LSATs. "Now though...we could probably find some stuff on the internet."

Dean grinned.

"Rock on. That's what I like to hear."

"You just like that because it means you don't have to go to a library," Sam snorted.

"We can't all be geeks, Sammy. Imagine what the world would be like."

"There'd be less violence, people would be smarter, and we'd all leave each other the hell alone." The younger of the two brothers smirked a little.

"Exactly. What'd be left for me to _shoot_?"

"You mean other than yourself?"

"Oh, yeah. Nevermind. There'd be all those smart mouthed _nerds_."

"Yeah, it'd be pretty awesome." Sam smiled a little crookedly, finally beginning to forget about the lump of total inconvenience in the other bed.

"So, we need coffee. And we need the internet. I find the guy that thought of putting those two together, I will kiss him on the mouth."

"How about just kissing me on the mouth? If you're moving from just kissing one guy to kissing two, you're moving out of the 'straight except for my brother' territory," Sam said. 

Dean considered the ramifications of that.

"...eh, he's probably fat," he decided, inconclusively, and then he kissed Sam on the mouth.

Sam rolled slightly to make the position more comfortable, his shoulder-blades mostly against the mattress. He kissed Dean back, their lips fitting together with a comfortable familiarity -- Sam remembered that before Dean, Jess was the only person he'd progressed that far down the relationship line with. Someone who he'd kissed so often that it only took half a second's thought for their mouths to fit just right together.

Dean was grateful when feeling rushed warm back into his arm. Not as grateful as he was for Sam beneath him. Even sleeping in a separate hotel room, even weighing John's points, he hadn't felt the crippling fear that stabbed _Alone_ cold in his heart since the week they spent together. He wanted to keep it that way.

Sam's hands skittered down Dean's sides, then his arms came up around his brother's waist. Once, he'd told himself he would never depend this deeply on Dean again. He'd been let down once, and even if he'd mostly forgotten about it consciously, subconsciously there was an anxiety there, that Dean would let him down again, that he'd hurt that badly again.

Maybe if he remembered it, instead of it being lost in the hazy cloud of childhood, he wouldn't have let himself get this deep. But he didn't, and he had, so there was really no coming back from that.

They had the same fears. The same apprehensions of each other. Things time and understanding could only slowly repair.

\----

Christopher Rier woke up handcuffed to a headboard in a motel room with two adult men making out on the bed beside him. He could honestly admit that whatever dark desires had cropped up lately, he could not have visualized himself in this particular situation the week before this, when he was building low income housing with church outreach.

He watched the hunters from the corner of his eye, his arm cramping in its metal shackle, and he finally had to ask the ceiling, discomfort in his voice:

"...can I _not_ come off homophobic and still say ' _What the hell?_ '"

Sam felt Dean draw his head up, and they both looked over to the boy in the other bed. The younger Winchester snorted.

"Hey, we saved your life yesterday, and you're staying in _our_ room on _our_ dime -- " blatantly not true, but Chris didn't know that, " -- so we can do whatever we want."

"I'm seeing this whole thing where I accidentally enjoy this, or have to go to the bathroom, and you shoot me.”

"Hey," Dean interjected. "That's not fair. We might strangle you."

Chris's face fell.

"Can I at least be handcuffed to the shower bar?"

"Now that we're awake, you don't really need to be handcuffed at all." Sam stretched under Dean's weight languidly, not caring that he enjoyed it, that Chris was there at all. He shifted out carefully, sitting up. "If you tried to escape, we'd get you back. It's not like you're going to be faster or stronger than either of us." He eyed the other man's scrawny form, unimpressed.

"You could be nicer to me. Where would I go? Those guys are probably watching my house. If I wanted _scarier_ guys with guns I would've called the police when you two left me alone." Chris tugged a little against the cuffs, trying to get more comfortable. His words carried no bold defiance. Not even a little. Only unspoken pleas, and apprehensive hope. "You can think I'm a _thing_ , but my social security number says otherwise."

Dean had to admit he hadn't even thought of that.

It was the years of living on the wrong side of the law.

Sam scowled. It was true. No one was going to believe them if they said 'Yes, we kidnapped a young man and chained him up, but really, officers, it was only because he was a demon'. It wasn't as easy as a possession, where you just had to get the demon out of someone. This was a someone _and_ a demon, all at the same time.

Chris looked a little smaller under Sam's scowl. 

Dean didn't have pity to spare on a demon, although he had a hard time believing Chris _was_ a demon. He knew how it worked. He knew that was exactly what a demon would want him to think. He looked down at Sam.

"We oughta get to work." Dean was all for threesomes, but the third wheel had to be a hot babe.

(Dean should have been pretty glad that Sam wasn't hearing all of his thoughts anymore, because that one would have earned him an elbow to the gut.)

Sam got up from under Dean, tugging down the hem of his shirt over his stomach, and walked over to one of their bags, pulling out the keys to the handcuffs. He moved to the other bed, undoing the cuffs.

Chris flexed his hand, wincing as the cramps worked themselves out, pain shooting up to his elbow. He sat quiet while Sam and Dean got dressed, and changed into the jeans Dean threw at him, light headed when he stood and it hard to put weight on his leg. The pants were a little big, but he cinched them up with a belt and he went into the bathroom, rolled them up to his knee, and washed the blood from himself, water stinging on the wound, stinking of day old sweat, his hair heavy, and wondering if they'd let him take a shower.

He stepped back into the room, and they looked dressed and ready to go...somewhere. He mustered up a little confidence.

"...I'm Chris. Christopher Rier."

"...Sam," the younger Winchester responded, pausing to pick up one of their duffels. He didn't add a last name, because he and Dean had the same last name. He could make one up, but there wasn't a point. "This is Dean," he motioned to his brother.

Dean didn't know if he wanted to put a name to the guy. Chris was alive, and he seemed emotional. Not emotional like the phantom traveler or Meg or their Enemy, Meg's father, spewing hate and sin, but like Max, and like Sam. Dean could still put a bullet in his head, and he would, but he'd remember it, too: ' _I killed Christopher Rier_.'

"That's your name? You don't have like a...demon name or somethin'? I'm not really feelin' 'Hey, I'm Chris, Doom of Men.'" 

"Man, we're not the X-men." Chris looked skeptical.

"But you had a name. Before. Before you killed Christopher Rier," Sam responded. "Just like I had a name, before I killed Sam. I don't _remember_ it, but you--...You remember, right?"

"I had a name," Chris agreed, and his demeanor altered perceptibly, more wistful than he was afraid. "I had a name, but I couldn't speak it, now. Not in this rude body."

Sam paused, then nodded awkwardly. He felt his inhumanity snag and pull at him, and he had to distract himself, to think of something else besides the phrase 'before I killed Sam'.

"Let's go, then." Sam turned, walking out the motel room door.

Dean watched Chris a few seconds more, uneasy, until their eyes met, and Chris’s countenance faded back to apprehensive as Dean stared him down.

"Are we going...?" the fair haired man asked, sounding a little uncertain again.

Dean checked the knife he was carrying, a reassurance of security, and he nodded. They followed Sam out to the Mazda, the scent of the motel dumpster wafting over the parking lot, air cool in the morning sun.

\----

They were getting their morning coffee when John called them. They were sitting at one of the 'chic' designed tables of the coffee shop, with the too-thin, uncomfortable wooden chairs on spindly legs, and Dean's phone began to ring in his pocket.

Dean picked up halfway through the second ring.

"Dad?"

"Hey, son," his father responded in his usual, albeit tired tone.

"It go down last night?" Dean glanced across the cafe to the corner they'd banished Chris to. The demon was reading a complimentary newspaper and didn't _seem_ to be listening in.

"Yeah...Looks like our--..." There was a pause. Dean could hear voices in the background. His father must’ve been in a public area. "Our _old friend_ has some new playmates, since Salvation. Keep anything unsavory away -- I couldn't get close. Had to take down one to get away."

"Bouncers, huh?" Dean took a sip of his black coffee. "What kind?"

"Human," John said, his tone gravelly. "...Like Sammy, I think." He only referred to Sam like that with Dean, now. Not to Sam's face.

"Damn." He met Sam's eyes over the back of the laptop. "Well, mebbie our _new_ friend can help us out on that."

Sam looked back at his brother, eyes questioning but waiting for Dean to hang up before asking anything.

"You got to the boy? What'd you get out of him?" John asked.

Dean dropped his gaze to the mahogany liquid in his cup, focusing on the long distance conversation.

"Not much. Not yet. But we got him." Dean hesitated, and then he confirmed. "He knows what he is."

John grunted on the other end of the line. There was a long pause before he spoke again.

"...Take care, son. You just...be careful. I'll call you again when I have more information. If anything...goes south -- " There was a meaning behind that, a terrible meaning. Dean was technically in the presence of two demons at the moment. " -- you get out of there and call me. Don't take any unnecessary risks." There was a second, then the line went dead.

Dean closed his phone and put it back in his pocket.

"He got shut out. More of these kids." He jerked his head Chris's way. "Looks like things are heatin' up."

Sam looked like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking over to Chris, then back at Dean with a sigh.

"Well, on the symbol front, I've got nothing. I mean, it's not like you can sketch an ancient rune into a search engine. I've been browsing through all sorts of archives, but I'm not sure I can do this without a really well stocked library." He paused, canting his head to the side as he thought. "Hey. Whatever happened to Pastor Jim's collection? It was pretty big, and well organized, if I remember right."

"...I dunno. We kinda missed the funeral. I mean, I dunno if the cops found his guns or what happened."

"I figured a contact'd have taken care of it...Everyone was pretty good friends with him." The Pastor had always been friendly to hunters, giving them somewhere to stay, somewhere to lick their wounds. Sam made a bit of a face as he began to really think this through. "Besides. You know how many secrets are buried out in that graveyard...Hunters all over the continent have... _investments_ in keeping that quiet."

Dean looked at Sam a minute, took a long sip from his styrofoam cup, licked the dark moustache from his lips.

"I know they do," he said, speaking quiet. "I just mean..." He shrugged. "We heard the news from Caleb. Caleb's dead. I'm not sure who the next person in that chain is."

Sam sighed, realizing there were a lot more complicated things involved in this. Two of Dad's old friends, who Sam'd known most his life...

"Well, I guess it's time to find out,” the younger of the Winchester brothers ran a hand through his hair.

Dean considered calling John and asking for info, and he bet John would let him pick his brain, but that was kind of a last resort. John didn't love explaining himself, and especially not over the phone.

"Let's take a crack at the journal, see if we can figure it out ourselves."

Sam pushed his laptop closed.

"Sounds like a plan. In the meantime we should move town. Those hunters aren't going to give up on big, bad and wussy here."

Dean chuckled.

"Too bad we got their mark, or we could chat _them_ up. I don't mind bein' on the outs with the pigs, but I wanna keep it clean with the players."

"They're not going to take kindly to one of us being prey," Sam responded. If they played it straight with the hunters, they'd want not only Chris, but Sam too.

Dean flashed a winning smile.

"That's why it's never gonna come up." He pushed himself to his feet, the skinny-legged chair scraping on the tile. "Lemmie get a lid for this and we'll roll."

\----

Dean drove the car, and Sam read the journal. They had no direction in mind, just putting mile after mile of asphalt behind them so they could rest easy, the Winchester's dirty little family secret safe. Chris slept in the back, curled up with a jumbo bottle of water. He still looked rough, and Dean could commiserate. He remembered what blood loss felt like: being inches away from a dead faint, tasting darkness on the back of his tongue, and weak all over.

Sam settled back in the passenger’s seat with bookwormish determination, a little too big for the bucket seat, and Dean watched him from behind his sunglasses, from time to time, because highway driving never took much steering. Sam's lashes drifted as his blue and brown eyes scanned down the pages, his long fingers fingering the loose edges of clippings.

Dean didn't have to ask himself what he loved about Sam. Sam had this smile, this laugh that seemed to catch him by surprise, that spilled over his stoic determination to brood and then he was laughing like he couldn't help himself, wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Sam could tell Dean he needed to do this or that, that he needed to communicate better, that he shouldn't lie, and then turn around and do exactly the opposite of whatever he said, completely hypocritically. When Dean wasn't mad about it, it was cute. 

Sam wanted to tell the truth. Despite everything, despite knowing it got them into as much trouble as lying and more, Sam had a god honest desire to bare his heart to strangers. It was such a bleeding emo thing. Sam didn't take shit from anybody. Dean took shit from Sam and John, like that newspaper article about the guy who got killed when an elephant took a dump on him, so Dean appreciated that when he saw it. Sometimes Sam didn't take shit that was probably his shit to shoulder, but Sam thought it was all for _great justice_ , so Dean could knock him for it but he had to respect it. Sam had this total intensity when he got going. Sam saw a goal and that was it. He was there. Dean loved to watch him work. Dean didn't have that kind of follow through. Sam had this sensitive puppy-dog face that he used on strangers and they wanted to tell him all their problems, but Dean knew Sam could be a real dick, be so totally self-absorbed he bent the fabric of time and space, and he only showed that to his family. Dean took pleasure knowing that every time Sam simpered into somebody's confidence.

Dean loved a lot of things about Sam besides that Sam needed him and Sam was hot in the sack. It was why he could live with himself and have sex with his brother.

Dean looked at Sam and he loved him and it was a pretty sure thing that Sam had helped kill his mother.

Dean couldn't say if those things were irreconcilable. 

His mother had been the whole world to him, before Sammy became his world. When he was frightened at night, he climbed into bed, and John grunted and mumbled but his mother told him 'It's all right,' took him in her arms and stroked his hair. She'd taught him the alphabet and taught him words. If she hadn't, he probably never would have learned to read. She baked him a cake that looked like a fire truck on his fourth birthday. He still remembered it, bright red and vanilla inside. His mother used to sing him lullabies. He couldn't remember the words, but he could remember her voice.

If she'd lived, he would've grown up to see her flaws, to rebel against her as a teenager, to be chastised and grounded and made to do chores, to understand that she was a woman and a person more than _mother_. But she was dead, so she was perfect.

She was dead, and she had died because of Sam. Dean had been avoiding that reality. But then there was Chris, who said boldfaced he was a demon, and there were kids like Sam helping birth their brethren and Sam had been a part of all that.

Dean was glad Sam had stopped poking around in his head, because it had only just sunk in and Dean didn't know what to make of it.

Even Sam didn't seem sure on how to broach the idea that he wasn't really Sam, that there was this whole other life out there that he'd lived, that he didn't remember anymore. He got it abstractly, but the concrete reality was really too much to deal with.

There was really only so long he could avoid it.

\----

They checked into a new motel when they'd gotten as far as they could get that day, and they had a similar set up. Chris got cuffed to the headboard, and Sam and Dean took the other bed, one curled up against the other's side, Sam's head on Dean's shoulder.

Sam’s dreams, the last week or so, had been deep, as if trying to make up for the fact that he hadn't dreamt at all for four months. He felt like he was drowning in them. 

Sometimes they were as simple as him falling through air, or as complex as age old legends with armies and glaciers that cut through the worlds. Sometimes they were of Jess, pale and lonely and beautiful. Sometimes they were of Dean and fire, and a terror that made his heart seize and pump in his chest. 

Sometimes he dreamt of dreams, like black satin folded in layers, thick and swaddling. He was moving through them like curtains, lower and lower, and they brushed over him. He felt like he was sleeping, though he thought he was awake. He felt like he was a mere number of months old again and comfortably crushed underneath the weight of his silent and grieving brother.

The dreams parted like a body before him, like all the things he'd killed, like the two people he'd ever made love to. Like a sea flowing backwards, back through the space in time in his head where the future poured in, heavy and portentous. Continental shelves that cut off and dipped back into an eternal abyss, where the pale sun shined through, no atmosphere to block it. Earth moving. Star birthing. World ending.

He watched the tilt of someone's chin, the movement of their jaw. He was flowing ever downwards, and they appeared to him in the speed of his descent. A face coming up again and again, over and over, his face, their face. My face. _Ours_.

Sam sat up in bed with a comically loud gasp, like a cartoon character. His back was arrow straight and rigid as rock, and his hand curled in the shirt over his sternum. His eyes were so wide, so white and bright and utterly elsewhere.

Dean grumbled, griping, as Sam bolted up from beneath him -- a split second, but then he was sitting up, wide awake, instinct overriding, and his hand sliding under his pillow to touch the hilt of a knife.

"...Sam?"

Sam didn't say anything. He'd _seen_. He seen that face. It was face of the inevitable.

His breathing sped up and hitched and he made a strange, high noise, like a whimper, a tight squeak. His hands came to his temples, heels of his palms resting there and his fingers sticking up above his head.

Suddenly he was out of bed, and there was no where to run, except for the bathroom, the light left on beckoning under the door. He turned on the water in the shower, leaving the door open, and stepped into the spray fully clothed. He turned, his back meeting tiles, and his too-wide eyes stared out into the room, his expression grotesque -- stretched and unnatural. He began to sink downwards, until he was sitting on the floor with his legs spread ungracefully, hands spread out on the tile behind him.

Dean watched him go. Chris stirred in his sleep. Dean got up and he followed him, leaving the knife behind him.

"Sam, you gonna tell me what's--" He stopped at the bathroom door. His first, frightened thought was _He's having some kind of seizure_.

Sam's chest stuttered in breath, and something crashed in the room.

Chris awoke with a cry.

The lamp had fallen off the bedside. 

Sam's limbs were shaking, and he brought his hands around to his face, digging the palms of his hands against his eyes, finally closing them, but it didn't do any good.

The water from the shower began to drip up the sides of the stall, drops floating in the air like bubbles.

Sam's head made a loud _crack_ as it impacted the tile behind him, and he shoved it down then back again. _Crack_. His head went down again, clearly determined in repeating the motion.

Dean's startlement gave way to a headier fear.

"Hey! Cut it out!" He pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the shower, grabbing Sam's wrists. He remembered that you weren't supposed to restrain a person having a seizure but he wasn't positive that was what this was. Sam's size and his strength were never more imposing than on a slippery wet floor.

Sam's wrists were in Dean's hands, but that didn't stop the determined motion of his head. 

It seemed Dean got his wish. For once it was Sam crying hard and deep, not him.

Dean slipped to his knees, bone bruising skin against the hard floor, and he grabbed Sam by the shoulders and hauled him against him so fierce his nails dug in his back through his heavy, wet shirt. At the edges of his vision the water was rising around them. The tiles were cool underneath his knees and he remembered ice and black water, Sam small and scared in his arms, a dream long passed. He needed Sam to stop hurting himself.

"Sammy," he pressed, not sure Sam could hear him. "Sammy, _please_."

There were a few flecks of blood on the tile behind Sam, blending easy and pink with the water. The spray was hardly hitting them anymore, floating around and gathering on the ceiling in a rippling pool.

Sam's arms moved suddenly from their position, but they snuck around Dean, under his arms, with a kind of painful slowness, until they came up under Dean's armpits and Sam's hands grasped at his brother's shoulder blades. The younger of the two sibling's turned his head into the other's neck and opened his mouth his tears ran down Dean's throat.

Dean gripped him close and made a noise like _shhh_ , tongue against the roof of his mouth, barely audible in the hiss of the shower. He swallowed, confused and emotional, but it was Sam crying, Sam's tears warm against his neck and the humidity dampening the gel in Dean’s hair. The spreading water lapped over the light fixture, casting strange shadows, like sunlight on the bottom of a swimming pool.

Sam couldn't find up, let alone a word to describe what had just happened. His mouth worked soundlessly against Dean's skin, accidentally biting his brother's collarbone, once. His fingers twisted and knotted in the material on Dean's back, his tears unabated.

Dean’s voice was a whisper, and a promise.

"I'm right here, Sammy."

Sam choked against his skin, and the noise he made was thick and filled with fear. 

" _Dean_ ," he got out, and tried to lift his head, but when he did he couldn't meet his brother's eyes, his own roving wild and all over the bathroom but never looking Dean in the face.

Dean loosened his grasp on Sam's shirt and reached up hesitantly to touch his face, thumb soothing over his cheekbone, his voice still low, but firm and insistent.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

Sam shook, and his eyes shut tight. 

"I saw it. I saw it _in my head_. I don't want to remember. I don't want to become like _that_." His head leaned trustingly into Dean's hands. "Don't let me remember."

Dean tugged him back into his embrace. He imagined the shadows, sliding and solidifying and pulling Sam down.

"You won't," Dean said, and he forced his voice to be sure. "You're not gonna. You had a bad dream."

Sam managed to twist his body in some foreign way, muscles that hadn't been there the last time Dean had held him in a big brother's embrace shifting to bend his body, now too big for the desperate holds of their youth, and somehow managed to fit. His head was in Dean's neck again, and his shoulders were hunched up to make up for the difference. His legs were splayed out to either side of Dean, one propped up and the other laid out. His hands remained against his brother's shoulder blades, and he was shaking.

He half ignored Chris yelling ‘You two dead in there?’ from the room, half not even hearing it, and the water continued to pool on the ceiling. Dean's neck was getting tears and snot and saliva, but Sam didn't care about dignity at the moment.

Big brother would chase this thing away. He had to have faith in that. He _had_ to, or else he'd fall apart.

Dean gingerly touched the back of Sam's head, to see how bad the bleeding was, one arm still wrapped up in holding him tight. The blood was warm under his fingers, but no more than he expected from a head wound, and he held his palm against the wound to help it clot.

"You're not sleepin' alone. Your dreams are dark? You pull me in."

"H-how?" Sam asked, as baffled by the powers in his head as he always was.

Sam swallowed bile at the thought that he'd know _exactly_ how to control them if he remembered. He was supposed to be remembering. If Chris was any indication, if these _others_ who seemed to know exactly who and what they were, if they were any indication, he was supposed to be remembering. But he wasn't going to. He just _wasn't_.

Dean didn't know how all the psychic mumbo jumbo worked in any technical way, but he knew what he'd seen.

"...there's a door. An' you can't find it yourself, you ask Jess." He pressed a kiss, chaste, against Sam's cheek, and he grinned a little, against his skin. "You tell yourself that before you go to sleep."

The protective instinct in Dean was as strong as it ever had been, even protecting Sam from himself. If it took falling through nightmares for days, or for months, he knew he'd do it, even if it wore him down. He couldn't remember a time Sam was completely happy, not since Sam was little, but he felt like things should be easier for him than they were. Sam never got a break.

Sam grit his teeth and took a breath. He managed to shift his head and kiss Dean, wet and sort of mucus-y, just lips against lips and definitely not their best ever. But that wasn't always what lovers were for. 

It definitely wasn't what brothers were for.

The kiss was brief, and Sam pulled back to look at his sibling, for a moment just looking at his eyes and feeding off the warmth and reassurance there. Dean was a fantastic protector. He'd always known the best things to say when Sam was small. He could comfort Sam with a word or a half grin in a way that the boys' father had never been able to with his guns and advice on how to fire.

Sam had been searching for safe, not normal. Safe like he'd been when he was small, when he'd had Dean all around him like cotton wool.

He gasped and jerked in surprise as the water pooling on the ceiling suddenly fell down all around them, splashing on their heads, the shower, and all over the bathroom, leaving everything dripping and water soaking into the small rug.

Dean laughed in the deluge, hair plastered against his face, water running from his chin, his green eyes lit up with amazement. He looked around the bathroom, wondering, hand still cupping Sam's head and the shower spigot now spraying fresh water down on them.

"You know that's _cool_ , right?"

The feeling clenching Dean's chest wasn't fear, just relief tied up with affection. The water pouring off him slowed to a dribble, and his clothes were stuck to his body. Sam did some dumb things, but that was why Dean was there. To bring him back from them.

Sam stared at his brother for a moment, then laughed with him. Dean didn't look at him like a freak, didn't look at him like he was something scary.

Dean thought it was kind of cool that he'd made water float to the ceiling.

They were being doused by the spray of the shower, now that it wasn't pouring upwards anymore, and they were sitting on the floor of the shower and laughing. They looked pretty ridiculous, two fully grown men, a tangle of limbs in a small space, but it didn't really matter all that much.

Sam threw a look at the door. The door didn't do anything. As always, his telekinesis seemed to be unwilling to act with him, but it didn't matter, because he reached up and grabbed the soap, flinging it at the door with Winchester accuracy, and it swung closed.

Sam sort of half smiled at his brother and didn't care that he was still bleeding from the head.

He kissed him again, deeply this time.

Dean took to Sam's mouth with all the intensity that always passed between them. He lowered the hand on Sam's head into the draining water, rinsed it half clean, and when their lips parted, he brushed Sam's matted hair out of Sam's eyes, lingering close, searching his face.

"You're so freakin' high maintenance, always makin' me save your ass."

Sam smiled a little, face still pale and body still shaking slightly with the rush of fear adrenaline, but his hands holding on to Dean steadily.

"Thought you didn't like high maintenance people?" he said with that faint smile. He turned his head into the motion of Dean's hand as it brushed his hair aside.

Dean snorted, skeptical.

"Like I always like _you_." His knuckles grazed Sam's cheek. He smiled, too. Loving somebody...it wasn't about liking everything about them. It was being fucking annoyed and loving them, anyway.

"Fair..." Sam turned his head slowly, breath moving out over Dean's palm, tongue flicking there before he pressed a kiss to the center of his brother's hand. He shut his eyes.

"Man, I love you so goddamned much." Sam’s words spoken against Dean’s skin.

Dean leaned in, and he licked Sam's ear, tongue lapping slow on Sam's wet skin, until all Sam's attention was drawn to that point. The ticklish vibration of Dean's voice was low and close.

"Mutual."

Sam didn't really care that the bathroom was dripping, or that they were soaked and the shower still raining down on them. He didn't care that Chris was shouting something outside the bathroom door, asking what the hell was going on. He sort of cared that he'd just gone through one of the worst panic attacks of his life and his limbs were still all shaky, and he felt stretched tight, but really, that didn't matter much with Dean on him, over him, saying the best things he could say. He still shifted back comfortably against the shower wall and ran his hands over his brother's body, pulling the wet shirt from his chest. It was probably _not_ the situation for this, but Sam didn't really care.

Dean's arms went with it, the heavy fabric rolling over his head, the sheen of water on his skin. He cared that Sam was off his game, he cared a lot about that, and he was concerned, because he'd made a real bad call, before, and it hadn't been too long ago. He had his own uncertainties, nagging contradictions. But if Sam needed relief, and Dean could give it, Dean couldn't deny him that, and he didn't want to.

Sam seemed to have some sense of this.

"It's okay..." the younger sibling’s hand came to the back of the elder's head as they moved, as he sank down to the bottom of the shower. "The closer you are, the better things feel...I don't want you to think I'm using you or something. I just...when things are bad, you make breathing easier again." He kissed Dean again, on a whim. "You can tell me no, if you need to."

Dean looked down into his little brother's face, that pleading brow, the mole by his nose...he seemed too breakable for being so big and his jaw so square, his eyes were red from crying, and kind of puffy. 

Water dripped around them, running off Dean's head and his back, from the tips of his hair, and from his nose.

"We're good," he said, real simple. He kissed Sam on the forehead, and then on the lips.

Sam softened a little after his brother pulled back.

"...here," he murmured lowly, moving one of his hands around from Dean's back, lifting it slowly and pressing his finger to a certain point on his cheek.

Dean scoffed, but he chuckled, and he kissed Sam there where Sam pointed.

"Here..." Sam touched the opposite cheek.

"Brat," Dean accused, ribbing.

He kissed Sam's other cheek with the same unerring aim.

"Here," he pressed the pad of his finger to his own lips, altering the age old routine.

Dean's brows shot up and then he smiled, impressed, and their lips met, the taste of skin and spit and brackish tap water.

Sam leaned up into it, finger slipping away just in time, and his arms came around his brother again. The water was cold as it fell on them, but it didn't really matter, because Dean was warm and over him.

They had sex in the shower, slow and warm, and if there was anything that would guide Sam through those veils of black, it was going to be this.

One long line, leading through the entirety of this human life.


	18. Chapter 18

_It wasn't even nightfall when they arrived._

_It was a truck and an old white van that pulled up in front of the church in Blue Earth, Minnesota, November 2006, the day that Jim Murphy was killed. They didn't know who knew that Jim was dead, just knew that they'd been contacted by Caleb, told to get there before the cops._

Hunters didn't much like working together, unless they were family, but Jim Murphy had made himself a friend to all hunters, and it didn't take much talking to get the few of them in the area to band together.

Jim had protected their secrets for years, buried their monsters, buried the people who got caught in the crossfire in deaths that couldn't be explained. Jim'd taken them in, stitched their cuts and set their broken bones. One man had nothing past one of his mid-forearms, hand amputated by Jim to prevent sepsis. 

They pulled what they needed out of the back of the van, the sun halfway down in the sky. They didn't know if whoever had informed Caleb had called the cops, or if there'd been some other means of communication -- just knew they needed to work fast.

They carried large plastic tubs out of the van and through the wide doors of the church. Getting them down the narrow stairwell was difficult, but they managed. The library that the Pastor had kept was extensive, and it took two hours of loading and unloading to ferry all the ancient tomes from the basement and into the van, where they would be taken to places they could still help in the fight Jim had dedicated his life to. 

The hunters also took down the weapons, popped every secret drawer, took every suspicious object. It was more than that if the cops found these things there might be a connection to other hunters. It was more than a fear that they would be exposed. There would be news reports, there would be videos. There would be investigations into a past that had no right to be violated, and they would label Jim a crazy, call him a psychopath or a sociopath or whatever they were calling it these days. Jim didn't deserve that. Not with the lives he'd saved, the lives he'd changed. 

They cleared out the basement office, and all the closets. They swept the area with professional efficiency, all quiet and dirty skinned. They looked like they could be homeless. They looked like backwater hicks and old men. No one would look at them and see specialists who could fool any crime scene investigations unit. No one would see them and know that they could speak flawless Latin and knew the oldest rites of man. No one would see them and know that there were hard built muscles under their old clothes, and weapons hidden against those muscles.

When they finished their silent work, they picked up the Pastor's body and carried him upstairs, into the small living room of the vicarage attached to the back of the church. One of them started a fire in the fire place, building it high and hot.

Another one muttered quiet words and benedictions, crossing himself then Jim's corpse. He placed a crucifix in the Pastor's limp hand. A third one strode into the room, a gas can full of salt in her hands. She up-ended it and poured the blessed salt over the body.

This was not a man who deserved the punishment of eternal unrest.

The first one nodded to the others when the fire was licking the stone around it. They stepped back, most of them leaving the room and going out to start up the cars. Two remained and carefully coached the fire out, until some of the old wallpaper began to crack and peel, and finally lit up. The fire moved up the wall, lazy at first, then determined. They waited until the blaze was firmly and roaringly attached to the ceiling, before turning and walking out, unafraid of the rapidly building conflagration.

_The last two hunters piled into the white van, through the side sliding door, and sat on the cold metal. The two cars remained in the church parking lot for awhile longer, until the spire was alight, and a few of them, in the truck, starting singing some old dirge, something that meant something, once._

_When the church was burning to the ground, they pulled calmly out of the parking lot and drove away, just out of sight as the sirens became audible._

\----

They were nine hours out of Tennessee and Sam was taking his turn at the wheel, the passenger's side bucket seat reclined all four inches it would go and Dean's forehead resting against the cool window, face hidden by his sunglasses, when Chris's hand came sneaking up from the back seat, reaching for the radio.

Dean caught his wrist, sudden and hard, and Chris let out a yelp.

"You touch my radio, I'll cap your ass, and Sam won't try to stop me."

"We've been listening to this stuff all day!” Chris pulled half-heartedly against Dean’s iron grip. “I thought you were _sleeping_."

"Never assume that." Dean released Chris's wrist, and Chris fell back dejectedly against his seat. Dean scoffed. "What kind of music do you listen to, anyway?"

Chris weighed the answer to that question against the kind of music he knew Dean listened to.

"I don't want to say."

"Come on,” Dean egged. “We're all friends here."

"No, we're not!”

Dean scratched his belly and then dug some chips out of the bag at his feet. He considered changing the station. He considered the _gravity_ of changing the station in his own car, even just while he slept. He wasn’t proud of the trashy blue Mazda, not like he’d been of his girl, but it deserved to live out its last years with dignity. It’d gotten him where he was going since he got it.

"I'll give you a clue, if it was produced in the last twenty years and you can't describe it with the word 'metal,' you won't hear it in this car."

"That's tyrannical!"

"And you shut your smart mouth."

"Do you even know what that means?"

"I said shut it, kid!"

Chris quieted down glumly, biting off a retort about exactly how much older than Dean he was because he knew, too, exactly how impotent he was in comparison. He stared out at the miles rolling by, the green of Appalachia slowly giving way to what would become the Great Plains, while Dean mumbled to himself and settled back down against the window, trying to get something close to comfortable in the small car.

Chris raised his tinny voice again only a few moments later.

"...can we stop at the next gas station? I really gotta pee."

Sam sighed.

"Your bladder is the size of a penny;" but he pulled off at the next exit. He'd never before realized that everyone in the Winchester family had adapted to life in a car. This guy needed to piss every two hours or so.

Dean lifted his head to watch Chris go borrow the bathroom key from the gas station clerk.

"...you know what we gotta do, right?"

"Yeah?" Sam tipped his head back at the side, leaning back against the car. He looked over at his brother, next to him. "What's that?"

Dean pulled his glasses down, glancing at Sam over the black frames.

"We gotta tell him we're related before we hit Nevada." He grimaced at the distaste of that idea. "I'm not havin' the 'some kids have two daddies and others bone their little brothers' conversation in front of this Joshua. I don't _know_ Joshua...and even if I did."

"We tell him that, it's a card he's got against us. He's going to _know_ we don't want anyone else to know. He could threaten to blurt it out unless we do what he wants us to," Sam responded, uneasy.

Dean's gaze followed Chris as he rounded the side of the building, still in sight, to let himself into the restroom. He had to ask himself if Chris had some sort of plot making them pull over this often, but maybe some people had weak bladders like that.

"I'm no guru, but I'm not seein' a future where we don't get called 'John's boys' sometime in the next three days," he said, looking back at Sam as Chris shut the door. "Seems to me it'd be better to tell him how I'll break his fingers if he tries to pull shit before shit gets started." Dean grinned a little.

Sam looked at his brother and made a face at the threat.

Dean totally _would_ break fingers.

"...well. I guess when he's back in the car and has no where to run when he discovers that he's on a road trip with the cast of Deliverance, you can go wild." Sam shifted his hips to the side, nudging Dean's. He smiled crookedly. "We _are_ from Kansas, you know. Maybe it was fate."

Dean sang a couple of notes from a familiar fiddle tune, grinning wider, radiating intense self-satisfaction.

"So this Joshua guy..." he said after a second, pushing his glasses up on his nose, looking more serious. "We know anything else about him besides he's got Jim's books?"

Sam shrugged a little. 

"He took on _most_ of Jim's books. They got split up, given to people who'd get the most use out of them. Joshua's an old contact of Dad's, apparently. One of the one's I called when you were in the hospital. He was helpful, more social than a lot of the others. He told me about Reverend LeGrange."

"Oh, _yeah_ ," Dean muttered, shifting in his seat. "Big help."

Sam tried to think of some kind of response, given what had down with LeGrange, but couldn't think of anything.

He was actually perversely happy when Chris got back to the car.

Dean didn't think it was Sam's fault, what happened. He could see himself doing the same thing if Sam had been dying, if he thought for a minute he'd lose him. It still ached inside to think the life he was living belonged to somebody else, that the time wasn't borrowed but stolen, mugged out of some unsuspecting sap. That wasn't Sam's fault, and Dean guessed accidentally inheriting something like that wasn't the worst thing he'd ever done, if he made something out of the time he'd been given.

They were underway again and miles down the road when he spoke up again.

"So, Chris. You got any siblings?"

Chris approached it as a loaded question.

"No. I mean, I might, now, I haven't heard from my dad in...As far as I know, it's just me. Why?" He leaned forward a little in his seat, like he might mishear something, trying to figure out where it was going.

"I've got a little brother," Dean said, noncommittally.

Dean loved acting so much it was a wonder he felt stupid in costumes -- he loved the challenge of keeping people on a string, reeling them in to his conclusions. It brightened his day to get one over somebody.

"Good for you, man. That's...why are we talking about this?" 

"Trust me. It's gonna be pretty important to you in a minute."

"I don't see _how_ ," Chris admitted, paling a little as he racked his brain.

"He's closer than you might think."

Chris swallowed. He had been living with humans for twenty four years but they were still unpredictable. Demons, demons a person could count on. Demons looked out for themselves, and you could trust your fellow demon to be on the same page as you on that pretty much all the time, the two of you with your own best interests at heart. Humans did some things just to _do_ them.

"Alright...I'll bite, what are you _talking_ about?"

Dean pulled his glasses off and leaned back to meet Chris's eyes, smiling like the worst of devils. He jerked his thumb towards Sam beside him.

Chris stared at him, disbelief creasing his features. It took him a minute to even process that.

"...you two are kind of hardcore."

"We _are_ the brothers Winchester," Sam responded easily. His eyes moved to the rearview mirror, looking at Chris in the backseat. "So we're going to see an old family friend, so to speak. They're going to talk about our father, and they're not going to know that we're anything but brothers. Dean has designs on your fingers," Sam concluded warningly.

Chris huddled back as Dean pantomimed a snapping motion between his hands. He was rapidly coming around to the conclusion that he didn't _like_ these people. They were a pain to be around, always having to watch his step and no good behavior earning any kind of benefits. Worse than that, his first guess had hit closer to the mark than he thought.

"Brothers Winchester. Got it. Who am I?"

"You're...a friend of mine. From college. Stanford," Sam informed, getting the cover story straight. "We'll go with as close to the truth as we can. You mentioned a fire. I'm assuming your mom died in it. So, you're looking for the demon we are."

Chris quieted, and for awhile it seemed like he was satisfied with that explanation and the threat of violence if he didn't behave.

He spoke up again with no hesitance.

"That's why you're on the road? You're looking for Him?"

Sam winced a little, somewhat uncomfortable with Chris having that knowledge. But there wasn't a whole lot of choice. The hunting community was pretty small. The Winchester clan and their personal vendetta were well known enough that Sam was pretty sure it'd be brought up _somewhere_ down the line.

"...Yes. He killed our mother."

"What do you think you're going to do if you find Him?"

“What do you _think_?" Sam looked surprised. 

"You're too much." Chris shook his head, smiling despite himself, despite the inherent danger of his boldness that prickled on his skin.

"I wouldn't laugh yet," Sam said, but looked back at the road. They had killed demons far more powerful than Chris.

Dean sat silent, listening to the two exchange words. He didn't much like Chris working _them_ for information, and he could tell the demon was prying at raising Sam's hackles. It was the right Winchester to target for that.

They needed whatever information they could get from him, but Dean wanted the guy gone.

\----

Joshua’s house was a speck in the long, flat miles of Nevada’s countryside when the Winchesters first spotted it in the distance, Chris asleep in the backseat and winding miles of asphalt stretching thin behind them. They were still a long way from the foothills of the Rockies, where the vegetation was sparse and scraggly but not rocky and jagged, yet.

The three men showed up on Joshua's doorstep in the dew damp morning air, tired of each other for the long cross-country ride, with all its frequent pit stops and halting conversations. The hunter greeted them like he knew them, asked about Dean's health, apologized for the death of Chris's mom. He was older than the boys and younger than John, younger than most of the hunters the Winchesters had met, a short, muscular, balding man with a loose-kempt goatee, and colorful tattoos under his trailer tan, wearing a natty old bathrobe and Tartan plaid boxers, holding his coffee in a blue ceramic mug.

They followed him through his single-level ranch style home, his two big dogs sniffing after them, the mastiff trying to stick his nose in Sam and then Chris's crotch. He backed off from Dean's glare. Dean was learning things about himself. He was definitely a cat person.

"I'll see if I can get Nitya up and we'll put breakfast together for you," Joshua offered. "I cook for her and the dogs, and they don't complain, but we try not to be so unkind to our guests." He pushed the door open to a backroom not as small as it was crowded with books, a desk littered with papers, some old and some crumpled, underneath the window. "It's not much in the way of a public library. It wasn't so bad before I fit Jimmy's collection in here. I’ve been on the road lately. Place is gathering dust."

Sam moved his way through the stacks of books with practiced ease, his hands in his pockets. He'd spent too many nights in the basement of the library at Stanford, reading up on case law, to be awkward around a disorganized study. 

He paused when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. He reached out, crouching down to very carefully pull out a big, old book. It was covered in dust now, and Sam's careful hand brushed it away.

The _Book of Kells_.

Sam took a slow breath as a memory hit him, of being six and shuffling around through the stacks of the well cared library in the basement of Pastor Jim's church. There was always a low buzz-hum from the de-humidifiers at work, which echoed off the stone, so it was never completely quiet.

He remembered taking the book in his hands, sneaking it down from the shelf and trying to open it, but it was a huge book for someone with such little arms, and he dropped it. He had scrambled to pick it up, fearing getting in trouble, but then large, adult hands reached down from behind him and carefully picked it up, straightening out the pages.

Sam had looked back at the Pastor, thinking he would be yelled at, but instead the man just sat himself down on the concrete floor, opening the large compendium.

"Did you want to look at this?" he'd asked Sam, talking in the same quiet, understanding tone that he always used with the children and the people who came to confession.

Sam nodded mutely.

"Why?"

"...because it's beautiful."

Jim smiled a little. 

"Yes, it is that...Do you know what an illuminated manuscript is?"

Sam remembered sitting on the floor and watching the Pastor flick gently through the tissue paper thin pages, pointing out things that he thought would interest the child. He translated the Latin for him, but Sam, already half fluent, took over after a few minutes, trying his best to sound out the consonants and work through the longer words.

He remembered how perfect this book had been, last time he'd seen it. Clean and dusted and dry, tucked away in the exact place it was supposed to be on a large metal shelf. 

Sam straightened, holding the book against his sternum, then shifting to continue following Joshua. It was, perhaps, the first moment that he really came to grips with the idea that Jim Murphy was dead, and though he hadn't been blood, he'd still been family.

Joshua stacked the papers on the desk and opened one of the lower drawers to set them away.

"Here's where I keep the blank paper," he said, opening another drawer to show Sam. "And pens and pencils are in this drawer over here. You use whatever you need. I tell you what, you wanna sketch this symbol you're looking for? I can try and make out if I've seen it."

Sam nodded and moved to a messy desk, setting the tome he was carrying down to the side, and pulling out one of the sheets of paper. He glanced at his left palm, where the henna was now barely visible, studying the sigil that was currently there. He recalled that the one that had been on his right palm had been vaguely similar.

He was glad he had the mind for these things. Or else this would be difficult.

He sighed. 

He sat down and began to sketch, trying to get as much of the details as he could. Something like an X, with crescents in between the bars. Moon symbols, clearly, but there were thousands of moon symbols in dozens of cultures. They'd have to find this specific one.

Dean watched over Sam's shoulder, reminding him the little crescents had circles at the tips of them, too, like the X, and Chris sat down on a box full of books in a corner and didn't say anything, even though he could have, because he didn't want to get taken out back.

"I'm sorry," Joshua said as the drawing came together. "It doesn't spark a memory."

Sam nodded, feeling a little disappointed, but he hadn't expected the other hunter to know. He set the paper to the side -- oh well. At least it'd be useful for hunting through the other books.

Joshua left to wake his wife, and Dean moved to the wall, scanning the intimidating number of titles packing the wooden shelves.

"Where do we start?"

Sam smiled wanly.

"That's the fun part. There's no starting point. None of these books are chronicled or in any particular order. Pastor Jim used to keep them organized by time period, and had a ledger that had them listed alphabetically and by subject matter. With this--..." he motioned around. "Really, any book you can pick up is where you start."

"Can I help?" Chris asked uncertainly, rubbing at his nose, the dust wrecking havoc on his sinuses.

"No way, dude," Dean dismissed offhand. "You wouldn't have to tell us if you found it."

Chris huffed in exasperation and looked around the crowded room. There were nothing but books. Either way, he guessed he'd have to read something. He reached out for a volume nearby with an old leather cover, sniffing back gathering snot as he cracked it open.

Sam glanced at him suspiciously. He disliked the demon being around all these books of wisdom. This was human knowledge. Human knowledge gathered to _fight_ things like Chris.

Though, if it was to fight things like Chris, Sam had to admit that it was to fight things like him too. So, he didn't say anything. Just settled into his uncomfortable chair and began browsing.

It ended up that they had to make a system. Sam could tell, a few pages in, which books were relevant to their search and which ones had nothing to do with what they were looking for. Once Sam identified the book as a possibility, it would be passed to Dean to check through for the symbol.

Nitya brought them food while her husband sat at an old IBM laptop in the kitchen, day trading, stock information spread out around him, asking the boys on their progress when they came to get coffee, his dogs sleeping at his feet.

"That's beautiful," Dean said when Nitya brought them lunch, looking longingly out the doorway through which she left. "I think I have a thing for older women."

It was right up there with the thing he had for younger women, and the other thing he had for women his own age.

Sam gave his brother an arched look.

" ‘That’? You've actually made the jump to referring to women as objects now?"

"Dude, her _legs_. Like three _miles_." Dean thought it was as obvious as the vermilion dot on her forehead. "What were _you_ lookin' at? That book?"

"Yes, at the book," Sam rubbed his forehead absently, flipping a page. "Aren't you supposed to be looking at books, too?"

"I _am_ lookin' at books. Now that the babe's gone." Dean sighed and dug his fork into the meal the cinnamon skinned woman had brought by, turning the page significantly. "Man, what did you _masturbate_ to?"

Chris sneezed loudly at the end of the question, wheezing in his corner. His plea to relocate had been vetoed. His a sinus headache hurt like a steel spike through his temples.

He had questions about this conversation, but he didn't want to interrupt.

"There’re more things in Heaven and Earth…” Sam muttered absently. “Are you telling me that you masturbate to random women's legs?" he asked, his finger drifting down a page, obviously only half paying attention to the conversation. "Aren't you supposed to masturbate about me?" Sam could say just about anything in a disinterested tone when he was involved in a book.

Dean smiled to himself, flipping another two pages, looking for pictures. (Nitya's cooking was really good, a very European looking pasta, heavy on the seasoning.)

"Sometimes you have random women's legs."

Sam did actually look up at that, giving Dean a bizarre look.

"Dude. That mental image is... _hideous_."

Dean smacked his lips.

"The best thing about this is you imaginin' yourself with women's legs. I can't _plan_ these things." 

"Right. You're a veritable master of circumstance," Sam said dryly, turning back to his book. He rubbed his forehead again, feeling a headache coming on. Probably from all the reading.

Dean chuckled, oblivious and amused, his nose buried in a book for once, although he wasn't reading the words.

Chris sneezed again, closing his book and leaning back against the bookshelf. He couldn't even enjoy the debauchery of the weirdoes that had picked him up when he was stuffed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Little motes of dust drifted up as his back hit the wood and he sneezed again.

Sam winced at Chris’s second sneeze. He shut his eyes, rubbing the space between his eyebrows.

"Fuck," he muttered, under his breath.

Dean glanced up from the grimoire.

"Okay there, Gams?"

"My head just hurts, is all," Sam responded. Which, really, since when had reading given him a headache anyways?

"Maybe it's all this dust."

Chris shot Dean a depreciating look.

"Yeah, I--..." Sam hissed a little, pinching the bridge of his nose. No. He knew this. He knew this. "Fuck."

Dean sat his plate of food on top of something old and handwritten beside him and set the grimoire open-faced to his page on the floor.

"Vision?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's..." The light suddenly seemed glaring, sliding around violently. He groaned and dropped his head and it hit him hard, as they always did.

Chris roused himself from his own personal misery, solely because Sam's personal misery seemed more interesting than his own.

"What's going on? Is he epileptic?" 

Sam's body jerked forward, his eyes tight shut.

_He was sitting on a bed; bedside, lamp, darkness; book on the quilted blanket._

_He turned to open the book, flipping through the pages as if he knew exactly what he wanted._

Sam gave a weak cry, clutching his head.

Dean held up a hand as Chris started to get up off the box. Chris dropped back down with another, wet sneeze.

"Just let him have some space."

_He stared down at a darkly inked, distinct symbol. (The symbol he was looking for!) His dreamself, visionself, futureself, pulled a large, permanent marker out of his pocket, carefully tracing the pattern on to his palm._

_The light flared and switched sideways again._

He was coming down. He rested his forehead against the desk, breathing hard.

Dean stood, approaching Sam slowly, sliding a hand over Sam's broad shoulder, and he waited for Sam to shift back to the now.

Sam felt a weight settle on his shoulder. He dipped a little woozily, then looked up at his brother. Then he leaned to the side a little, taking the support that Dean offered. He shut his eyes, processing things for a moment.

"We need to move?" Dean asked, quiet.

Sam shook his head slowly. 

"It's...That was really... _odd_ ," he lifted a hand to his forehead, running his fingers through his shaggy hair to push it out of the way. "I saw the book we're looking for."

"You get the title?" Dean frowned. He wasn't sure if he'd call it a good thing or a bad thing Sam's visions wanted to show new side.

"'The Magus''," Sam said, looking up at his brother. "...I don't get how this is possible, Dean. Before, they always just showed me...something that was happening. Somewhere. Either I would change the event or I wouldn't. I mean, this time it showed me with the book. But if I hadn't have the vision of me with the book, I couldn't have found it, which means I couldn't have been there with it. That's cyclical time. That _shouldn't happen_."

Dean's fingers tightened against Sam's shirt, reassuring. He tried to think back, starting with _Star Trek_ and _Quantum Leap_ , _Back to the Future_ and _The Terminator_ , his lexicon on the workings of time.

"It's like in ‘Minority Report’," he came up with, after a minute, wagging a finger towards Sam, bright with understanding.

Sam stared at him a bit blankly. What?

"...Steven Spielberg...Tom Cruise...? ...aw, forget it." He muttered something than sounded like 'goddamn heathen'. "This Precog sees him goin' after a guy he wouldn't have gone after if there was no Precog. That's what you're talkin' about, right?"

"Um, yeah, I guess," Sam shrugged a little. He was thinking more along the lines of physics and theories on the nature of time. "Yes, that's what I'm talking about. How do I know how to find the book without the vision? I don't. But now I know, which means I'll find it, which means the scene I just saw is going to come to pass, which means I get a vision of it."

"So you can see the future?" Chris piped up from his corner.

"Welcome to three minutes ago, genius," Dean snipped back, his attention focused on Sam. "So we turn this place upside down for that book. What's the problem?"

"Nothing...just...bothers me, is all." It made Sam nervous. With a book that was okay. But he was worried about bigger, far more serious events coming to pass because of him. That was the problem. If his visions actually dictated future events, as opposed to just showing him them, he could end up effectively playing god.

Dean patted him on the shoulder, words of reassurance on his tongue, but he hesitated. He didn't understand it well enough to have a real opinion, a real promise -- yet another time he missed lying to Sam. He turned to the shelf. He started in the corner, running his finger along the bindings of the texts, some new and dust jacketed, others old and handbound. He pulled out a volume with no title on its edge to check the cover, still quiet as he pushed it back in.

"You said...’The Magus’, right?" 

"Yeah," Sam nodded, still feeling a little disoriented by his vision, but he got up anyways. He began searching through the more difficult to browse piles of books on the floor.

Chris lugged himself onto his feet and turned to face his corner, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

"If I find this book, we can go somewhere else, right?"

"Fine," Sam grunted, running his index finger over some book spines.

"You have any other allergies we should know about? Does coconut kill you?" Dean wiped a little dust off his own hand, onto the denim of his jeans.

"Uh...just sea food."

"Sam, why we been so worked up over these demons? Gene Simmons does more in Satan's service. They struggle with _shrimp_."

"Here," Sam said in reply, which didn't seem to make sense until he straightened, holding a large book in his hands. "I found it."

Dean smiled and straightened the books he'd been browsing.

"Righteous."

Sam thumped the book down on the desk, opening it up and flicking through the pages rapidly. There were a lot of different seals, signs and sigils on the pages, but he slowed down when he started noticing the symbols of the planets sketched out on the pages. He stopped at the Seal of the Moon.

"This one," he pointed to it, laying the book flat.

"That...means absolutely nothing to me," Dean admitted on inspection of the page.

Sam leaned down to read the very small type.

" 'The seventh and last table is of the Moon: it consists of a square of nine having eighty-one--...' " he drifted off then, skimming through a lot of numerical details that didn't much matter to them. " 'There are over it divine names, with an intelligence to what is good and a spirit to evil; and from it are drawn the characters of the moon and the spirits thereof. This, the Moon being fortunate, engraven on silver, makes the bearer amiable, pleasant, cheerful, and honoured, removing all malice and ill-will; it causes security in a journey, increases of riches, and health of body; drives away enemies, and other evil things from what place soever thou shalt wish them to be expelled.' There," he pointed to a section on the page. "The part about driving away enemies and other evil things."

"Go back to the part where it says it makes us money," Dean urged, scanning up a little further with his finger. He couldn't make out most of it. It was another old text with things that looked like Fs everywhere for some other letter. 

Chris hovered behind the two of them, unable to get a good look at the text. He fell back, eventually, hoping now that they had what they were looking for they'd at least think of moving to another room.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"It must have banished the ghost when I touched her with it," he mused, leaning back a little. "But I don't get it...If these symbols could be used to banish ghosts without having to salt and burn the corpse, why haven't hunters been using them all the time? It's way more permanent than a shot gun full of rock salt."

Dean turned to his little brother, sympathetic. He could see what Sam was getting at, how the idea was seductive.

"You know why Dad doesn't like Ruth, Sammy."

"Yeah, but even so. We'd have _heard_ of this by now, Dean," Sam looked to his brother, letting his hand fall back to his side. "Dad never liked witches, but we always knew they were around. Pastor Jim had a few witches that were friends. Dad might disapprove of any use of the supernatural, but we always knew he was in the minority when it came to other players. They'd use whatever they could. Even if he disapproved of this, we'd have heard about these things before." Sam shrugged his arms out to the sides. "You really think we'd be in this job for twenty four years and never hear about symbols that make ghosts burn up on contact?"

Dean ran his tongue across his front teeth, tasting pasta sauce and spice. He shifted his shoulders, peering at the strange symbols on the pages before him, reaching down to turn one old, yellowed sheet to look at the next.

"Maybe they don't."

"Than how do you explain what happened?"

"You really think if I covered my body in this stuff and punched a ghost in the face anything would happen? Think of all the people it took to make that Tulpa back in Texas."

Sam paused, considering Dean's words. He licked his lips slowly.

"So...what you're saying is -- it was probably a combination of the sigil and of...me."

Dean jerked around to glare at Chris.

"Hey, classified information, flyboy. Go raid the fridge or somethin'. Good luck tryin' to bolt across that desert outside." He shooed him with a hand.

Chris gaped a minute, sneezed again, rolled his eyes, and sniffled off towards the door. 

Dean let him go, paused, and went to check and make sure Chris wasn't hanging out right outside. The demon had vacated.

Sam sat down heavily in the old wooden chair, and let out a heavy sigh. 

"Sorry..." he muttered, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. "I wasn't thinking--...Just didn't even stop to think about the fact that he was in here."

"Don't worry about it," Dean reassured him, dropping down on one of the boxes. "He's kinda forgettable."

"So..." Sam opened his eyes reluctantly, looking at _The Magus_ 's open pages. "Crap. I wish there was some way to test this out...I mean, I don't remember thinking anything at the time, so it wasn't like I used my--..." he paused, then gritted out the p-word, " -- _powers_...It just kind of happened."

Then again, Ruth had said that there'd never been creatures such as them before.

"We can test it out. Find a case. Ask Joshua if he's heard anything. I haven't wasted a ghost in _months_."

_Him sitting on a bed, staring at the book. A permanent marker._

Sam winced a little. They were going to find a ghost. He was going to sit on a bed and draw the Moon sigil on to his palm. Kill another ghost, like he killed Susan Coechiro. Twice.

Sam nodded a little. 

"Makes sense."

Dean clapped his hands together, and rocked back onto his feet.

"It's a plan. Let's do it."

Sam swallowed and nodded. He picked up _The Magus_ , then paused. 

He looked down at the _Book of Kells_ , then picked it up as well, and held both books to his chest.

Dean smirked at the image, his little brother with his first true love. Dean couldn't compete, but he stepped up, tugged Sam forward by his belt and pressed his mouth against Sam's, the books heavy between them, Dean's mouth tasting like lunch. He snickered against Sam's lips and then, shaking his head, picked up his pasta headed out towards the kitchen, shoveling food in his mouth as he walked.

Sam looked a little surprised when Dean leaned up for a kiss, but then smiled a little and leaned down into it. He softened and followed Dean.

He remembered the way Pastor Jim kept these books, studiously organized and cleaned, in a dry, climate controlled room. He remembered the way the priest had run his fingers over the spines with reverence. Sam remembered talking to Jim, and the priest would tell him that books were precious. They were the collection of all human knowledge, all the wisdom that humans had accumulated over the centuries. The books had been Jim’s first love too, and he had passed that love on to Sam.

These books? They deserved better.

\----

"Looks like the spot."

Dean took his EMF detector out of his pocket, clicking it on, there on the sidewalk in the old Nevada town, and began pacing the area to check for electrical interference.

Sam stared down at his right palm, looking at the clumsily drawn sigil there, rendered in black ink. He flexed his fingers.

"So, now we just wait, like normal," he sighed, leaning back against a brick wall.

"Business as usual," Dean agreed, pausing as he got a blip and checking up and down to see if it intensified. 

When he was satisfied he wasn't getting any abnormal readings, at least, yet, he walked over to unshoulder their weapons duffel and drop it next to Sam.

Sam rolled his head to the side, looking down at his brother's (rather ghetto) EMF detector, then at his sibling's profile. 

"What do you think will happen?"

"If we're lucky, it's one less local legend. It gets pissed off...we run like eight year olds ringin' a doorbell." Dean was smiling too wide to be trusted. He liked the whole mission for most of the wrong reasons.

Sam snorted, and actually smiled a little. His brother's behavior usually managed to pick up his spirits a little bit. He shifted closer to Dean, until their shoulders and upper arms were pressed together, and they waited the ghost out.

She came with a crackle of static and an electronic racket, flickering into existence at the corner, looking out across the crosswalk. She turned, a flicker moving her three steps ahead, her blonde hair done up with gold and pearls, her green taffeta gown fitted to her slender figure, her eyes black holes in her face, the streetlight streaming through her ethereal body.

Dean wolf whistled, and she flickered through two more steps, flashes of motion, a small purse clutched in her hands.

"She's all yours, tiger."

"Gee. _Thanks_ ," Sam muttered, but pushed himself off the wall. There was something fair about burning a corpse and putting a wandering spirit to rest. Being a killer of the dead was another thing altogether. Still, he walked over the concrete, moving towards the flickering body.

She seemed to be one of those mostly harmless spirits, but they weren’t there to discover any crimes. He looked down at his hand one more time, biting at his lower lip. She flickered away from him a few steps, but he was used to ghosts, and he lunged forward, plunging his hand, palm up, into her stomach.

She flashed in and out of life, broken-toothed black maw stretching open, the first note of an unworldly scream-- she vanished, the night air suddenly still, Dean's EMF detector suddenly silent.

Dean's eyebrows arched up towards his hairline. He glanced down to check the device in his hand, a useless, habitual kind of action.

Sam paused, and turned his hand up. He stood there for a long moment, looking a little pale himself.

Then he turned towards Dean and held his palm out to him -- the black sigil had vanished from his skin, as if it had never been there at all.

_"You know, she got me into hunting ghosts," Joshua said, looking wistful out the window above his sink. "I never had the heart to do her myself. But the drive's not that bad."_

"...guess that's it," Dean said, stilted. He couldn't completely believe it, and he looked around with an edge of paranoia. He hadn't even gotten to shoot anything.

Sam rubbed his palm slowly, looking down at it. He pursed his lips.

"...There're other symbols," he said lowly. There were thousands of symbols. Possibly millions, spread out over all cultures and time. And each one did something different.

"There's a lot books back at Joshua's," Dean suggested.

Sam paused, licking his lips. He nodded faintly, and began to walk back to the Mazda with Dean. He stopped for a moment, however, when he saw Chris. His expression darkened a little when he saw the demon. All his anger, his frustration over the past few days, bubbled to the surface.

He didn’t know why he hated this guy so much. There was good reason to be distrustful, sure. But hate? Sam didn’t know where it came from, this vehemence, but it was there, seething and bright, all the time. Every time he looked at Chris.

Chris, who was someone like him. Someone who had let an innocent woman die.

Sam stalked over to the man chained to the inside of the car door.

"What do you know about this?"

Chris's eyes widened, with Sam looming above him, glad the door was between him and the bigger man.

"This time I _really_ don't know what you're talking about."

Sam reached down, taking out that barrier by swinging the door open suddenly, yanking Chris out from the seat as his arm was dragged, still cuffed to the inside of the door.

"The symbol. These _symbols_ ," Sam said. "Why do things happen when they're drawn on me?"

Chris stumbled, knees scraping on the pavement through his jeans. He got clumsily to his feet, wrist chaffed by the rough pull on the cuffs. He rubbed his shoulder, his words apologetic with as much honesty as he could impute.

"I've never heard of anything like that. That's not my kind of thing."

That should have been it. That should have been enough.

But for some reason the apologetic tone only made Sam _angrier_. 

He swung his right hand, hand in a fist, his hand impacting Chris's right shoulder.

"You're _keeping things from us_ ," he said, knowing it somewhere. He was sure of it. Chris had to be hiding things from them. He knew he was.

Dean leaned against the hood of the car, letting Sam work him, keeping an eye out for pedestrians or patrolling cop cars on the long, level streets. Way he saw it, it was about time Chris started talking to pay for his room and board.

Chris hissed a curse, stumbling back a step with the impact.

"I've told you what you've asked!" he protested.

Sam pulled his fist back swiftly, the back of it striking Chris's neck.

"No you _haven't_ ," he said, pulling his arms back to his sides to suddenly lunge forward, grabbing both of Chris's shoulders and shove him up against the open space of where the door would be. Chris's back impacted the side of the car's roof, where it dug into his shoulderblades. "You're lying."

Dean cringed at Chris's yelp of pain. It wasn't good cop, bad cop. There wasn't a good cop. But Dean had been on the receiving end of that kind of punishment.

"Anything," Chris parroted back, breathless from the blow. "Just...start talking. _That's_ what you said."

Sam's hand seized the other man's throat. Chris was supposed to be a soldier in arms. He was supposed to be on the same side as Sam -- or rather, Sam was supposed to be on the same side as Chris. 

"I can make you _stop_ talking. I won't feel bad about it," his fingernails dug into Chris's throat. "You wanna keep playing word games or do you wanna _breathe_?"

Distrust him, yes. But why? Why did he _hate_ him so much? Why did Chris stand as a symbol for everything that made Sam sick on the inside?

"I don't know anything about symbols!" Chris grit out, the cuffs straining against his wrist, air hard to come by with the mucus still in his sinuses and the pressure on his windpipe. "You can send me back to Hell...and I'll ask around, but I won't get back t’you with the answer."

"Fine!" Sam barked, hard and hateful. There was a look in his eyes that wasn't reluctance, or the normal, quiet anger that he held. 

His mother. His poor mother. She'd thought she was protecting her son, but it hadn't been Sam, not really, not anymore. She'd died for him and he was something terrible.

Sam shoved Chris's head back harsher, a second hand coming up to join the first.

"Then give me something. Give me the reason why I shouldn't kill you."

Dean stood up from the side of the car, watching Sam careful, now. He didn't doubt Chris was playing Sam, playing him just like before, digging in to get his temper going so he could control the questioning, even while he was struggling for air. He thought about stepping in, but what would they get? Chris frustratingly avoidant in the backseat of the car.

Chris's gaze slid over to Dean, wild eyed and pleading, as he felt himself begin to strangle, but when he saw there was no help coming words choked up from his throat, the fingers of one hand digging at Sam's wrist.

"...because I know. I know... _everything_. And...you...you don't have a _clue_."

Sam shifted suddenly, one hand coming off Chris's throat, the other sliding vicious over it, digging all four of his nails in hard, peeling back the skin in four long strips. They were thin, made by dull, human nails, but they stung sharp and vivid. 

These things. These fucking things. Things that thought they could just waltz in and take over a human life, fuck with everyone and everything in it. He was one of those things. He'd killed Sam Winchester and taken everything that was supposed to be his. He was just as evil as this person in front of him.

He leaned in suddenly, putting his head next to Chris's. 

"I can do _plenty_ to you and keep you alive. I can kill you real slow. Takes days to die from a stomach wound. Do you _know_ how many demons I've killed? More powerful ones than you. You'd be the first demon I killed by shoving shrimp down his throat and watched him swell up, go red and choke slow."

He was one of these things. He was just like Chris, on the inside. Once, he’d been something willing to kill a human being, ruin the lives of an entire family. And god, he hated himself.

Chris went limp against the car, blood trickling hot down his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He could feel Sam's nails underneath his skin, _in_ his skin, a throbbing ache, a pain he loathed -- his human frailty.

"I'll tell you..." he whispered, eyes pleading, shuddering underneath Sam's hand. "I swear, I'll tell you..."

"I'm not convinced," Sam leaned back, and punched Chris in his gut. His mind worked as Chris lurched over, and Sam was suddenly trying to remember where he'd hidden his knives this morning, when he'd tucked two on to his body, like normal. He finally found one, hiltless, pressed into a make-shift sheath he'd sewed into the inside of the side of his jeans, and pulled it out.

He shoved Chris back and pulled up the man's shirt. He dug the tip of the knife into his vulnerable belly, the knife going in just a millimeter. Nothing harmful. Yet, anyways.

" _Talk_."

Chris panted, cold steel against his belly. He had become familiar with this feeling, the feeling that coursed through his veins, heady and paralyzing. Mortal terror. His eyes flashed, and he smiled, a straight row of white teeth -- his grandparents paid a thousand dollars for braces when he was in the seventh grade. His human life seemed so real in his memory, moments as intense as this one, here, where he could feel an ancient anger rising in his gullet and vitriol bitter on his tongue. 

All that fear fell away.

"....say _please_."

Dean didn't know if he could move fast enough.

The knife slid in and there was a sick noise when it ground against Chris's hip bone. In the same motion, Sam yanked the other man forward and hard, dislocating his shoulder as his arm jerked against the cuffs. As Chris's body dropped to the ground, Sam lashed out with a kick, foot bouncing Chris against the bottom of the car, and it would have gotten worse, much worse, if Dean hadn't grabbed him and pushed him back. 

All those motions, happening so fast, between the time when Dean pushed himself off the car and when he impacted Sam.

Sam's body surged against Dean's, powerfully, trying to get back to Chris.

"Damn it! Sam! _Christ_!" Dean heard himself swearing, loud through white noise, through the sudden surge of adrenaline and he dug his heels in the pavement, tried to get a handhold, but Sam wore loose clothes. Sam was a titanic force against him, had the advantage in weight, and Dean could see himself losing this fast if Sam didn't step off, if it wasn't a fight. A fight he could win in, but not this, Sam thrashing against him and his feet giving ground. "Back down! Back the _fuck_ down, Sammy!"

Sam flung the bloodied knife out to the side, hearing it clang over the pavement.

"Let me go!" he shoved against Dean, blindly struggling with the advantage afforded him by his larger body, his arms shoving against Dean in wild, unpredictable ways. He didn't turn his violence on Dean, unwilling to let fly a punch at his brother, but he came on like a bulldozer in his attempts to get back to Chris.

Dean felt his guard weakening as he knocked back Sam's blows. The car was behind him, Chris was crumpled behind him, the curb was back there, too, and Dean couldn't lose more ground without tripping up on one of those things.

Sometimes Dean had to be the older brother.

He drove his fist into Sam's stomach, dropped his weight on his right foot, and slugged him across the face -- felt his skin burn against Sam's five o'clock shadow. He brought his hands up as Sam staggered back, dragging in air through his mouth.

"I'm not makin' a _suggestion_ ," he promised, a plea for peace in his voice, watching Sam's eyes, because that's where he'd see it first -- if Sam had riled himself up enough to jump on it.

Sam reeled to the side when he was punched, and he staggered, long legs shifting out to the side to catch himself, straight out and diagonal between his hips and the ground.

He hung there for a moment, hand against his cheekbone, head down. When he managed to straighten out, raise himself to his full height again, he didn't make a move. He stayed were he was, hand still against his face.

He didn't try to get closer, or fight Dean, but his eyes burned with an expression that was as clear as any sentence.

_Traitor._

Dean took it like a blow. It hurt. He knew Sam was just _mad_ , but it hurt all the same, that accusation in those eyes. 

He didn’t flinch him an opening. He didn't drop his stance. Old responsibility firmed his jaw.

"You get as mad as you want. You're not killin' when it's personal, little brother. I'm not lettin' you make yourself a murderer."

Sam didn't back down on his glare, angry and hurt all at once. For a moment the tension in Sam's arms became so much that he shook with the pent up energy, but after a moment his shoulders slumped, and he took a step back.

He lowered his hand from his face and turned in a swift motion, walking around to find where his knife had landed.

Dean lowered his hands, still alert, still keeping an eye on Sam's proximity. He didn't turn to Chris until Sam had bent down to pick the knife up and shown a little of his back.

He nudged Chris's head with his sneaker, and the demon groaned.

"Now, me? I'll kill you. So you better give me somethin’ now."

Chris looked up at him weakly, worse for the wear.

"You forget that speech you just gave?"

"Only matters on the first offense," Dean assured him genially, flashing a smile. "I popped that cherry."

Chris assessed his injuries, the bleeding wounds, the bruises, the arm he could hardly feel. The fear was gone and the anger was ebbing, there was only bone tired, all through him, and a vague conception of the reception he'd get coming home so ignominiously dead. It was hard to talk with a crushed windpipe.

"...we'll be called. We'll be called together. We'll gather...and await His word. They won't care that...Samuel doesn't remember. It doesn't matter as much as you think."

"Now, why's that?" Dean asked, surly.

" _Strength_ matters," Chris spit against the sidewalk. "And your Sam...he's strong. He kills demons...? That's not a bad thing. He kills demons...? Well that's why I wanna be behind him."

Sam paced on the periphery, watching them talk.

"Where? Where're they going to gather?" he asked.

Chris's eyes flickered towards the younger Winchester.

"It's not a place...it'll be a person...Someone who thinks they can lead, and they'll reach, and they'll search...and then they'll _call_. I've felt it...I've felt it in the past months...others, reaching. You must feel it, too...it wouldn't feel like anything at all, if you didn't know what to look for.

“I only realized once I remembered."

"Then take us there. We're supposed to go anyways, right? So show us the way. If you can hear them. Then take us to them," Sam finally said, stopping his pacing.

"I'll take you. When they tell me where they are, I'll bring you with me." Chris laughed, hoarse in his throat. "Look at me. I'm pathetic. I'd be bottom of the pecking order...but not with you." He let his head fall against the sidewalk. "But...you'll have to leave your human. They'll tear his mind apart. There won't be _anything_ left."

Sam's eyes darted to Dean, his breathing rate still picked up from the earlier violence. He debated it with himself. He looked at Dean and he saw a future, a human life that would have been a better one if Sam hadn't done what he'd done, hadn't taken this one man's brother away from him.

And he honestly wondered how far he could drag Dean into this, how much more he could take from the Winchesters.

Dean's fists clenched. He didn't look at Sam. He remembered the feeling of Sam's thoughts plunging into his own, the total disorientation. He remembered Sam stripping through the complexities of his thoughts, and that he hadn't even known. 

He had no defense. He doubted practice could shield him against those powers.

He was human.

In all his years fighting the supernatural, he had always considered that a strength. A ghost, a monster, a _demon_ might be powerful, but a human could adapt. It was the edge the hunters held.

Until Chris and Max. 

Until Sam.

"...I don't want you goin' in that hornet's nest alone," Dean said, despite the hard reality. He looked up. He was Dean Winchester. He'd figure something out. He’d have to.

Sam sighed heavily, lifting a hand to run through his hair. 

"I dunno...I just--..." he didn't know what to do. He looked at Chris, then at Dean, then kept pacing. "I don't know."

"Could you..." Chris hesitated. "My arm..." He was suffering a number of physical discomforts, all a little dangrous, but he was afraid to move with his limb at such a strange angle.

Sam paused, then walked resolutely to the car. He crouched down. 

"Brace yourself," he said, taking Chris's good shoulder in hand, lifting the other man and putting his other hand on the dislocated arm. He shoved back to get the leverage he'd need, and banged Chris's shoulder against the car door, using his own arm to lessen the impact. The pressure popped the joint back into place.

Chris breathed a sigh of relief, struggling his way back up into the seat, pulling the door in a little to ease his arm, and investigating his stab wound as best he could in the darkness.

Dean's eyes narrowed.

"I get the feelin' you told us exactly as much as you wanted to, hippy."

"You're not dumb," Chris said, smiling shakily. "But there's things I'm much more afraid of than you."

"You think that's gonna make me wanna protect you when we meet up with this...Whoever it is?" Sam asked, still crouched on the ground, but he sounded more tired than anything else, now.

"I can't tell you His designs." Chris felt the weight of his situation, the danger. "I can't tell you about Him. Think about it, and you know that. You kill me here and they'll laugh where I crawl back to, but I'll get it worse if I fire off a loose canon like you before He brings you back to the fold."

Sam grimaced, hating the way Chris would say 'He', and the idea of being 'brought back to the fold'. He looked at Dean, and wanted to say 'I would never betray you', but he didn't know if it'd be true or not.

"...Fine. Leave 'him' out of it then. But you tell me everything else you got, or when you realize it, whatever...You keep me informed, I'll keep you from getting killed." It was a weird promise to make after having just stabbed Chris, but there it was anyways. Sam seemed more rational, at least.

Chris nodded empathetically.

Dean didn't see it ending well. None of the scenarios he played out in his mind ended out well for any of them. If Chris alone could push Sam to flip his shit, he couldn't imagine Sam immersed in that company.

He couldn't lie to himself and say he saw Sam staying on top of it.

He checked his watch.

"Guys, it's almost two in the morning. If Chris ain't gonna bleed to death, let's bunk. Free board and free food and we'll be as likely to kill each other come sunup."

Sam swallowed and nodded, stepping back and straightening. He didn't have the keys, so he just walked around, getting in the passenger's side.

Dean stepped up to unlock the handcuffs.

"First aid bag's at your feet," he grunted, and he closed the car door on Chris. He turned on the ceiling light as he settled into the driver's seat, leaving the demon to inexpertly patch up his wounds in the back seat.

\----

Sam sat on the bed in their room at Joshua's cramped place. The man had offered a cot to them, but they'd responded that they were brothers, and used to sharing a bunk. Sam was holding an ice bag against his cheek, giving Dean the stink eye wherever he moved.

Dean changed into a pair of Sam's boxers, all his underclothes some kind of soiled and they needed to do laundry, aware of Sam's glare on him while got ready for bed. He was glad Chris had taken the couch, and glad Joshua hadn't asked too many questions when they brought him back in real disrepair. He came and sat down on his side of the bed.

"You think I'm gonna apologize to you, you got a long wait ahead."

There was no way he was getting play tonight.

"That is _so not_ what you wanna say right now," Sam said.

Dean huffed, disgruntled, and pulled the covers down beside him, mumbling a half-hearted, "Whatever."

Sam made a pissed off noise, and got up off the bed to go get washed up.

Dean climbed under the old sheets, tugging the quilted blanket up over his shoulders and rolling to face the wall. He thought he'd be better off if he could get to sleep before Sam came back, but there were too many thoughts and apprehensions still buzzing in his head.

When Sam came out of the bathroom again, he grunted.

"You're loud," he muttered, moving around to pull out his sweatpants. Yeah. No play.

"Hope I don't keep you up," Dean retorted sourly. 

"You don't have to be a _prick_ about it," Sam said testily, throwing down the hand towel he was carrying.

Dean rolled halfway over, throwing a look over his shoulder.

"Dude, what's your problem?"

" _My_ problem? You're the one that's lying there snarking at me," Sam shot back.

"You've been a bitch since we got back." Dean's face betrayed incredulity.

"You _punched me_."

Dean studied the cracked paint on the wall, trying to make heads or tails of that accusation. He reluctantly rolled over on his back.

"I've punched you before," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but this is different."

"Different like you were gonna _kill_ somebody different? Yeah, that was different."

"You still punched me!"

"I'd punch you again, same situation." Dean was pretty confidant on that. "Jesus, listen to yourself, Sammy. You think I _wanna_ hurt you?"

"No, but I think you don't wanna apologize for it!" he returned. "And it's _Sam_."

Dean flinched at that familiar admonishment. He hadn't heard it in awhile. He wet his lips, a sinking sensation in his chest. He almost regretted not asking for that cot. He bet Sam would kick in the night. He stuck by his guns. He was sure he was right.

"A fist to a face or a homicide charge. Let me think _real hard_ on that one. If I apologized, it'd be sayin' I'm sorry. I'm _not_ sorry. You think I can _wrestle_ you? You're like a freakin' yeti."

"If you apologized you'd be saying you were sorry for _hitting me in the face_! Not saying that you regret or would change your actions! You're just telling me that you're fucking sorry! And yeah, honestly? The fact that you're not at all _does_ kinda piss me off!"

Dean threw his hands up. They fell back limp against the quilt and he pulled a dejected face, swallowing back the words _I'm sorry I_ had _to hit you in the face_.

He was pretty sure they weren't what Sam was looking for.

"No, you idiot, that's _exactly_ , what I'm looking for," Sam puffed, his tone seeming to have settled down though. He shifted his shoulders, knowing his control over his mind reading was slipping because of his emotional state. He wished he was better at controlling these things.

He sighed, moving towards the bed finally, shifting on to his side of it.

Dean remained wary a few moments longer, but he finally consented he'd done something right. Accidentally. It didn't feel like the same thing, being sorry the whole thing came up as opposed to actually punching Sam, which, definitely, totally, he would do again if he had to. 'I hit my boyfriend' was a little different than 'I hit my brother', but he was pretty sure the term 'domestic violence' didn't extend to stopping somebody from doing permanent, fatal violence.

That didn't come up in most people's relationships.

"You stopped," Dean admitted. He gave Sam credit for that. He hadn't wanted to put him down on the sidewalk. There was a long period of silence as the two got settled.

"Dean?" Sam asked, laying down. He pulled the sheets up to his waist, letting them drape there. He lay on his side, facing his brother as he thought about how to phrase his question.

"Yeah?"

"Back there. You said that it only matters on the first offense...Who did you kill?" he asked, perversely enough, with the same questioning lilt he'd had as a child, asking Dean why he had to go to bed so early.

Dean swallowed, and he guessed he'd half hoped Sam'd been too angry for the words to stick with him -- a pretty foolish hope. He loved Sam, but parts of himself he bulldoggedly kept private, through years together and telepathy.

"Wasn't long after you left." Those words came easy, he'd made his peace with all that. "It was up in Wyoming. Papers had been talkin' about nothin' but this guy. He cut up little kids. Did.... Really terrible. I wasn't lookin' for him. Problem for the cops." Dean hesitated, old wounds rubbing raw. "You know the kind of places our job takes us. I found him...I found where he took 'em... He kept these trophies. Little shoes. Skirts. Little hair clips. It floored me, a person doin' something like that...so I waited for him. Maybe I was thinkin' I'd call the cops -- but I looked at this guy, and I _hated_ him. I've seen uglier monsters kinder." His voice trembled, caustic. "I caught him," he said, and that came easy, again. "I slit his throat. It wasn't a struggle. No accident. It wasn't like I didn't...I waffled, I was lookin' at him and he was sweaty and his eyes were rollin'...maybe that's worse." He shook his head a little. "I called Jim. Body stunk the whole way to Minnesota. Jim had...he got somebody else to finish up my hunt."

Sam lay there through the whole thing, listening to what Dean said. It wasn't the type of story that Dean wanted a hug after. It was the type of story that there was no real 'correct' response to. 

It didn't surprise Sam, not all that much. He'd always had some sense that his brother's hands were killer's hands. He’d seen the blood running down his brother’s face when they came away from the ghost who called herself Bloody Mary. Dean had a gentler soul to him than most people gave him credit for, even their father. Probably because Sam had been the only one to witness Dean, the _reality_ of Dean, when they were growing up. Sam was the only one who got to see the Dean that cleaned soap out of Sam's eyes, when Sam had been little in the bathtub. Sam was the only one who got to see Dean cry when Dad had to leave, back when Dean was only seven and scared of being left alone with Sammy. But Sam also knew just how fierce, just how violent Dean could get when he and his were threatened. Dean would take down whatever it was in his way to protect his brother and father -- and others, as well. Those he saw as good.

Sam knew all these things about Dean. Maybe not all the details, things like the story he’d just heard, but he'd run the gamut that was his brother, from gentle to vicious, knew them all. He wasn't afraid of any part of Dean. 

He took Dean's hands under the covers, between his own, and hoped it would be accepted.

Dean let Sam hold him, that much, at least. He'd puked his guts out over it. Over and over when he got out of that car, dry heaving in the dirt. He'd shed his tears, sat in Jim's church on a pew after the small, Christian funeral -- two men and two shovels and a Bible in the dark -- and looked at that massive organ behind the pulpit until Jim came to him and talked about God, and just when Dean couldn't hear it any more, produced a bottle of single malt Scotch whiskey.

_"He was kind enough to give us our respites, here on Earth."_

They'd cleaned the Impala out, it'd taken hours to cut down the stink. Nobody ever told John.

"You know, that ghoul'd been a person..." Dean's voice was low and broken. He knew what he might have done. "Little _kids_ , man."

Sam leaned in, until their foreheads were brushing. He shut his eyes, listening to Dean's words as they moved over him.

"...Humans have the ability to be both greater and more terrible than any monster," he said softly.

Sam's hands and his body protective on Dean's stoked a foreign sensation in the elder Winchester, a security that life made Dean no promise of. It still shocked him -- his little brother's unconditional acceptance, no matter how much he knew to expect it. It made him feel worth something, a thing he'd never felt when he was just living for other people. Sam's interest in even the dark things, Sam content with what little he had to give...

"There're things I regret more."

The admission was simple, but there were years of silence behind it.

"You can tell me those things too," Sam said simply. He kissed Dean lightly, because he could, and he could feel the way Dean's breath hit his lips. "But you don't have to, either," he finished. 

There were times that Sam _needed_ Dean to talk. There were times when he _had_ to know what Dean was thinking, without having to burrow into his mind. Moments when he needed to know that Dean was willing to put himself on the line, emotionally. But those were always moments when he needed to hear what Dean was thinking of _him_ , what he was thinking with regards to Sam.

He'd never made Dean talk about things in his own life that he didn't want to tell Sam, and he hoped he never would. Dean wasn't the type of person to like having secrets dragged out of him.

"Not tonight," Dean said, but it wasn't _never_. He could see himself putting it on the line, if Sam was still with him. If Sam didn't vanish with the demon in the living room to a place Dean couldn't go.

It wouldn't be Sam's fault. Dean could see that, this time. It wouldn't be because Sam put something else first. Someone needed to go and discover, and he didn't doubt Sam would want him there. It'd be his own safety coming first, and it left him wondering if he was a person meant to always be left behind.

Sam made a small motion with his head, something like a nod, but not wanting to dislodge their foreheads. He tightened his fingers around his brother's hands.

"Not tonight."


	19. Chapter 19

Sam woke early, like normal, and with Dean's half-hard cock pressed against his pelvis, nestled between his legs.

That wasn't quite so normal.

Sam grumbled lowly as he came around, swallowed and sniffing to clear his sinuses, and finally opened his eyes, looking at his brother's face. They were close together, with Sam's knee half flung over Dean's legs, and Dean's hand resting low on his thigh.

Sam shifted back slowly, careful not to wake his brother. That zone of leeway was hard to measure, where Sam would wake up if the AC kicked on, but Dean could shower and trump around the room and turn the TV on, and Sam would happily sleep through it. It was too much out of the ordinary too quick that would set off alarms.

Sam's hand snuck down under the covers and into the warmth created by their bodies in their intimate cocoon, and his fingers smoothed over Dean's hips, sliding his boxers down to his thighs, and then they came to his stiffened flesh. He began to encourage it to full arousal, all the while watching Dean's face for signs of wakefulness. Every time he seemed close to waking, Sam would back off, wait a second, then continue.

Getting Dean on his back and himself down low enough to slowly take the head of his brother's erection into his mouth was a little more difficult, but never let it be said that Sam Winchester wasn't up for a challenge.

Dean faded in and out of shifting, preconscious fantasies, woke up from something he couldn't remember, but what he guessed had to be about the best dream ever, only to realize he was more than wet dream hard and he was getting a blowjob from Sam.

He gasped a disbelieving breath. He looked down his body, where Sam was covered by the quilt and the sheets, and he reached down with a shaky hand to push that fabric back -- Sam's flushed lips sliding over his slick, swollen skin almost too much to watch.

"...you are the _best_."

Sam couldn't help but smile a little at how his brother's voice sounded, all sleep-heavy and appreciative. Sam still wasn't used to the sensation of another man's equipment in his mouth, even his brother's (anyone else would say _especially_ his brother's, but Sam was a Winchester, and a demon, and there was nothing remotely average about him, so he said things like _even_ his brother's). It felt odd, but it wasn't too difficult. The concept was pretty straight forward. 

He managed to slide his lips down over Dean's hardness, though he still couldn't take him all that deep. He made up for it by placing his fingers around the base.

Dean relaxed back against the pillow, letting go of the covers to clench his hand in the sheets. He didn't know what kind of noises he'd made unconscious and drifting but he couldn't get loud, not in some stranger's house, with some stranger and his hot wife somewhere down the hall, so he dug his nails into that thin fabric instead of right into his palm.

Dean had gotten comfortable with Sam's cock in his mouth. The words _like a Thai hooker_ and _chickenhead_ came to mind, and more than once. He could beat that gag reflex, if only for short. After that week's practice, he didn't care if Sam got his hips into it. He'd given the man more oral sex than he’d give a woman. Dean was good to his women, but Dean lived for _action_. It was just that it was Sam. He liked to watch Sam squirm without his own dick all engaged; liked to watch it casual.

Dean could see Sam as a man who treated women right, who probably spent two hours between a girl's legs before he got any play himself, probably propped a book of law on her stomach and hung out there all evening, but Sam didn't _have_ to give Dean oral sex, because he'd put more than his mouth on the line. Dean couldn't get enough of closing that space between them.

Sam didn't have to give Dean oral sex, but it was damn good citizen of him he wanted to. Dean closed his eyes and held that image of Sam's head bobbing real smooth while he felt it visceral at the annex of his thighs.

Sam could see his brother's hands flexing and his fingers curling, and he knew he was doing that, that it was him making his brother's body rise off the mattress.

It was a power trip, even if he was the one with a cock in his mouth. He was the one controlling this situation.

Dean's hunger for him was something that continued to boggle Sam's mind, even after almost half a year of being "together". 

His mouth dipped lower, deeper this time, dropping his tongue to try and override the gag reflex. His fingers tightened around the base of Dean's erection, and began to pump up and down between there and his lips.

Dean dragged his legs up, pushing his heels against the mattress...toe-curling sex. He bit his lower lip. He wanted to holler something. A minute or two of being this quiet and he wanted to yell something _absurd_ , something _corny_ , he wanted to yell 'Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Just _like_ that, baby!' -- like that time Sam had stopped giving him head and started hitting him.

Dean didn't do that. The desire almost broke him. He had this feeling in his stomach that if he made any noise at all, exhibitionism would take over. There were only the damp, choked grunts in his throat. He had this other feeling in his stomach, a three-alarm fire building up a backdraft, and that more than made up for a little discretion.

Sam smoothed his free hand up Dean's taut belly, pressing his palm flat against the ridges of muscle. He could feel the wildness of his brother's breathing, and how his heart rate had picked up. He drank it in, humming softly to make his mouth rumble around Dean's cock, pressing his tongue hard against the throbbing vein on the underside.

Dean's erection pumped under Sam's fingers, insuppressible spasms, and then he came hard against the back of Sam's mouth, body trembling through its orgasm, fingers digging in his palm and mouth open and the image of Sam seared into his mind.

Sam shut his eyes tightly, raising his head a little as his brother's seed hit the back of his throat, and his esophagus clenched and flexed in multiple swallows. When he felt Dean's body go limp, he pulled his head back slow, taking a deep breath and crawling back up to lay half over, half next to Dean, with a small grin.

"So. How much do I rock?"

Dean reached out to brush his finger over Sam's full and wet lower lip, amazed where that had been.

"Like John Bonham on drums."

That had no meaning to Sam. But it still made him smile wild and adoringly, like when he was little and Dean had told him he'd done a great job cleaning up. Even at twenty four, Sam would always turn to Dean's praise like a plant to the sun.

Dean felt his eyelids drooping back towards a slumber he hadn't completely left, a lopsided smile negligent on his lips. His fingers drifted down from Sam's mouth and brief, dreamlike images came and passed on the backs of his eyes.

"Hey, now," Sam said, leaning in to kiss him with bitter lips, one hand moving to rest on Dean's waist. "No going back to sleep."

Dean cracked one eye.

"What? ...I gotta make change?" His lips smacked sleepily and he started nodding off again. "Just put it in my mouth, dude."

Sam snorted.

"Nice. You're a class act, Dean. No, I'm bored. Entertain me. And not in the 'just put your cock in my mouth' way."

Dean lugged a hand up from underneath the covers to dig his palm against his bleary eyes. He held it up in front of him and made a little mouth with his thumb against his fingers, peered at it and turned it towards Sam, clapping it like yapping, mumbling content:

"I could do little voices." 

"Fine," Sam said, and regarded the little Dean-hand quite seriously. "Tell me, Dean's left hand, why me? When did this whole thing start?" It might have been odd to ask those questions some five months after it had come out that Dean wanted him in everyway, both brotherly and not. "I wanna know. Because I never noticed. You know, before the telepathy thing. And you're not allowed to call me a girl, left-hand, because I just woke your Master up with a blow job, which, as far as I can tell, makes me the awesomest little brother ever to awesome."

Dean's left hand turned to the left and then, evasively, to the right, where Dean shrugged unhelpfully at it. It pivoted back towards Sam, backed up a little, and flapped in a back-of-the-throat squawk:

" _Well, Sam, you know Dean's a_ dirty pervert."

Dean couldn't keep the gravity up, with Sam's face so serious, and he snorted a laugh and shook his hand out. It was eighteen years ago and a sock.

"Seriously?" he asked, trying to wake himself up a little more.

Sam couldn't help but laugh, and only _they_ could have the 'this is why I want to fuck my brother' conversation like _this_. 

"Seriously," the younger of the two responded, taking his brother's left hand between his two.

"You _will_ trade me a sex story for this, spanky. It's blowjobs for blowjobs here in Deanland," Dean swore groggily. " _Dean_ wants to know if you've masturbated in the middle of a library." Sam's porn was intimate, emotional little conversations. Dean had gotten the gist over time. Dean's porn was porn. Dean's porn would always _be_ porn. 

"Dude, I _gave_ you the blow job for this story..." Sam muttered under his breath. "And no, I've never masturbated in a library." Dean would have to get to understanding that his porn was going to be short if he kept asking questions to which the answer was 'no'.

"I dunno...after you got back you were this different guy,” Dean went on, answering Sam’s original question. “You got _big_ , you _looked_ different, too. That guy was still a bitch, but I liked him okay." A little guilty feeling still tugged at him. Sure, things were great _now_ , but there was a sneaky voyeur quality to the whole thing, back then. "You were around, you were naked a lot, you were in my motel rooms….You gotta understand, I've said it before, I was _never_ thinkin' about puttin' it on you, Sam..." The words were hard to find. "You just...you went and got sex figured out. I could see it. You moved different. Finally knew what you were doin’. I liked it. Took you long enough." 

"So that was it? I had sex and then I was..." A turn on? What was the proper phrasing here? "I dunno why this works." He moved his hands back down to the sides of Dean's waist, shifting his head till his forehead rested on the rough surface of Dean's chin. "I feel like it probably shouldn't, but it does." He paused, then gave Dean an out from the uncomfortably emotional(though for Sam it was perfectly comfortable). "Any more pervy questions?"

"...would you masturbate in a library if I asked you to?" Dean grinned.

"...no," Sam responded flatly.

Dean really was going to have to start smaller.

Dean snapped his fingers in disappointment, rolling his eyes. He tried to think of something Sam could actually answer, as opposed to something Dean wanted to hear in his private little fantasies.

"Okay. I got one. How many people have you had sex with?"

"Two," Sam replied simply. There was a pause after he said it when he realized that that wasn't the right answer in Deanland, and he winced. Damn, Dean was gonna rag on him.

But the ragging couldn't start until Dean found a place for that information in his paradigm.

"....I'm the _second_ person you've had sex with?" 

"Yeah," Sam gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug.

"Like, you had sex with your woman and then you moved right on up to your _brother_?" Dean wasn't judging. He was just _saying_.

Sam gave him a little shove.

"Hey, let me remind you, _you_ were the one with the hots for _me_."

Dean wrestled with that information. He'd at least expected Sam to have dated other people to the point of messing around. It was impossible to wrap his mind around the idea of Sam as this guy who was really, singularly in it for.... 

Dean had settled into monogamy admirably. He was _happy_ with monogamy. But there'd been oats, and they'd been _sewn_.

"...the good news is, we're in Nevada."

"What does that have to --.... _No_. Dean. No. N. O. No."

"There's a girl out there named Dee Lite and she wants you to _spank_ her, Sam."

"Do you remember my bizarre little aversion to herpes?" Sam responded, lifting his head. "Yeah. Apparently that wasn't a _phase_. Look, Dean. Really. I'm happy with the sex I've had. It's not like I didn't have the opportunities. I did. I just chose not to take them. I wasn't interested."

"I'm sorry." Dean cupped his ear towards Sam. "What was the that? The language of your people is _strange_ to me, pilgrim."

Sam smacked Dean's forehead.

"Ow!" Dean groused. "All right. Fine. But you're blowin' a once-in-a-country opportunity. These aren't five dollar hookers. Your big brother was gonna put down three hundred bucks for you."

"Dean. I could have sex with you. For free."

Dean thought Sam was missing the point.

"You can _always_ have sex with me for free." He gave up, defeated, defeat apparent on his face. He was going to Hell for sure. Two sexual partners. Sam had been so _clean_.

"See? No hookers necessary," Sam gave Dean a clap on the shoulder.

Sam liked to think that he still was clean. Despite the incest.

Dean clapped his hand on Sam's shoulder right back, somber.

"Sam, I just want you to know. I'm okay with this whole sex with just you thing, but if you _ever_ wanna give it to a girl in a gas station bathroom, you don't even have to call me on the phone. You just fill me in later."

"....you know what? I think this thing is alright. It can't be incest. We're clearly _not related_ ," Sam responded with a big plastic smile. He sat up. "Let's get dressed."

Dean groped at Sam as Sam moved out of his reach and then groaned, getting out of bed himself, old wooden floor cool under his feet, wishing he could grab just five more hours, still not wanting to face any possible futures.

"I gotta get my hair cut today," he decided. It was long. Not long for Sam, maybe, but by now it was all falling one way or the other. Sides had been chosen.

Sam reached for his bag, pulling out some boxers and pants, tugging them on to his long legs after having removed his sleepwear. He looked over at his brother curiously.

"How many people have _you_ had sex with?"

Dean didn't have an exact number. Normally, he was proud of that. Normally, it was a badge of virility: that's right, pussy in every port from California to Maine. In the face Sam's untarnished sexual history, he could see the harsh reality. He was a slut, not even a dignified adjective like 'player.'

"...like since we got on the road together?"

Sam paused. He could tell he wasn't going to really like the answer.

"...yeah, sure. That." He gave his brother a smile. He hadn't really _intended_ to make his brother feel like a slut. He assumed that Dean would have been proud.

Dean shook his head, heading over and unzipping his bag.

"Sam, I got laid when I was _fourteen_. That Lizzy chick that hung out with the football players. I told her I could shoot a tin can off the twenty yard line from the end zone and she did me out behind the lunchroom."

"I never knew that," Sam said absently. Of course, that had been a year after they'd inexplicably stopped talking to one another about everything. "That was...I mean. We didn't talk a lot then." If they had, Sam was sure that Dean would have told him all about it, inappropriate or not. They had shared everything together -- the good stuff, the bad stuff, and the gross stuff.

Dean recalled the hazy memory of a nightmare, Sam, and a bar of faceless women, that Asian girl suffocating on the floor, and fire. It was different from nightmares before and since. That place, in that moment, was real.

"Another thing you and dad don't know about me," he said, smirking sadly. The thing about being the glue holding the family together was how alone it had always left him with all his personal experiences, good and bad. Being the predictable one meant burying a few skeletons, literal and figurative.

"You stopped talking to me," Sam pulled his toothbrush out of his bag, wondering how he could have this kind of conversation while brushing his teeth. "Before then, you used to tell me everything." He paused. "I miss that. I missed you." He stuck the toothbrush in his mouth as a convenient excuse to go quiet and headed into the adjacent bathroom.

"Yeah? Why was that, anyway...?" Dean couldn't quite remember. That period of life had been bursting with firsts: his first hunts, his first kisses, his first and only try at school, his first roll behind a trash bin, the first time he tried to smoke to look cool and got laughed at as he coughed, heaving, and gave Tyrell a black eye to get his pride back. He'd been busy, but he still kept an eye on Sam, although there'd been a distance between them. He got his shaving kit out and sundry other toiletries.

There was a long pause, the only sound Sam brushing his teeth. He could have talked through it, they normally did, but he didn't. He finished brushing and spit, rinsing his mouth out, then pausing. Perhaps the only reason he said anything at all was because they were different rooms, though the door was open, and they couldn't see one another.

"You started going on hunts with Dad." He shrugged a little, to the mirror. "Before then...I always thought we came in a pair. No one got either of us without the other. But then...I dunno. You grew up. You went places I couldn't go, and you didn't even have to be dragged. You wanted to go..." He started packing his toiletries up, his voice picking back up its usual confidence. "I guess we just grew apart," he said dismissively, but it was fairly clear that that wasn't it.

"Well, sure I wanted to go,” Dean admitted. “We'd been trainin' for that our whole lives. To get out there. To bust on evil." He thought about Sam, an awkward fit with him and John, always trying to find a quiet place to read. "...you never wanted that?"

Sam looked at himself in the mirror.

"I wanted..." He made a little bit of a face and looked down. "I liked the training when we were younger because you were there with me. It was the same as when we had to get in the car forever, or go get dressed...I didn't care _what_ we were doing. You'd crack a joke, or I'd whisper something to you, and we had all these keywords that no one else understood but us, so it was almost like we were speaking another language...I dunno. I just wanted...you." He coughed, awkwardly. "I guess. But you wanted more than that, so I thought if you did, then I should too. I always followed after you in everything else. I tried to find something that lit me up the same way hunting seemed to light you up."

Dean's first thought was how extremely unprepared he was for Sam to hit him with a load of emotional bullshit first thing in the morning, and after some great fellatio, too. It was his second thought that hit him harder.

"...tell me we're not sharin' and carin' 'cause we're thinkin' about lettin' you go."

"...you asked me. I answered," came the response. Sam honestly hadn't thought of it that way, but when Dean brought it up, he suddenly found he couldn't answer with a definitive _no_.

Dean sat his shaving kit down. Tossed down his clothes, too, like he was angry with them, and paced uselessly over to the window, leaning his forearm against the frame and looking out across the flat, cracked dirt where Joshua's scraggly shepherd mix was marking some scrub brush while the mastiff sniffed around on something's trail.

"The first time I went huntin'," he said, after a long time silent, "I pissed myself. I was terrified. I was bleedin' all over. Dad had to carry me back to the car." That part of the story never made its way back to Sam. That part of the story was always carefully omitted. "I thought lookin' after you was keepin' your face clean and makin' sure you didn't starve, an' then I got out there. I saw what Dad saw. I saw those sons of bitches findin' you and tearin' you apart."

Sam stayed with his hands pressed against the countertop, taking in Dean's worries, the anxieties his brother had carried since he was thirteen years old. He licked his lips slowly.

"It wasn't until I moved out that I really thought about the fact that what we'd had wasn't the same for you as for me. When I was small I thought you loved being around me as much as I loved being around you. I thought it was as fun and easy for you as it was for me. I was a kid. I didn't see all the stuff you had to do to take care of me. I didn't see all the times you gave up something for me, or how you'd always be calm when I was upset, or recognized that you were changing my diapers when you were still just a kid yourself. I just saw us. Sam and Dean. And...we just...we were a packaged set, you know? I was nine. All I saw was you leaving me alone. I thought you didn't like me anymore." The words tasted stupid even as they were coming out. They were, after all, the sentiments of a nine-year-old boy. But...Dean'd asked.

Dean figured they might as well talk about it. They might as well talk about anything, if they might never talk about anything again. It was calling Sam on the phone from his car and telling him he made him proud. Dean could always find words to say when he was saying goodbye.

He watched the dogs streak across the yard after a bird, kicking up dust, their barking barely muted by the window panes. The bird took off, wings beating desperately for altitude.

There had been a time when Sam was young and dependent and as much a part of his space as Dean’s hand or his leg. That time would never come again. But Sam’s independence was more of an illusion than it had seemed. Sam was too driven; Sam didn’t come equipped with brakes. It was Jess’s compassionate presence and gentle redirection, or Dean running up against him, with hardheaded words and sometimes his fist, that kept Sam from getting lost in his passions.

Dean knew that. Not in so many words. He believed in Sam. He believed Sam would always be the man he knew.

"...you can't do this by yourself. That guy pushed all your buttons last night."

Sam sighed and leaned back against the bathroom door, open and against the wall. He looked up at the ceiling, not particularly surprised that Dean didn't respond to what he said. Now more than ever he wanted to go back to the days when the world made sense through the filter of his big brother.

"I don't do well without you," he said, honestly. "We need to find a way to keep you safe."

Dean pushed off from the windowsill.

"If we can keep 'em outta my head, that oughta be enough. At least it'd be somethin'."

"So," Sam stepped out of the bathroom at last, leaning on the doorframe. "Let's see what we can do about that."

Dean startled as a fist pounded on the hallway door.

"Can I use the shower?" Chris's voice pitched up.

Dean glared through the door like Chris could see him.

"No! I'm usin' it."

"I'm covered in blood!" Chris asserted petulantly.

Dean crossed the floor and picked his clothes and his razor back up.

"Dogs'll lick it off!"

Sam snorted a little, watching his brother. He stopped Dean, before he made it to the bathroom, and put his hands in either side of Dean's waist. He leaned down and kissed him slowly, because he could, because Dean was there.

It had been fifteen years since they had been so close.

The rules of the thing had changed in a lot of tangible ways. Those fifteen years had been made of pushing and shoving and fighting and barely speaking and not speaking at all to get back to the place they'd never quite broken free from. They were different people, Dean tired of leading and Sam, no longer a child, willing to shoulder his own share of the burden, and the intimacy itself radically matured.

But it seemed that after fifteen years, they still came as a pair. A matched set.

\----

Sam had abandoned the chair.

It was a lost cause, anyways. 

The thing was at the front of the room, with a sea of books behind the desk, and no way to reach them, so Sam had just given up. He'd waded into the center of the piles of books, grunting and making other noises of displeasure when he saw the bent pages and dents from where they'd bumped into something during the move. He'd cleared out a circle just large enough for him to sit down cross-legged, and had a legal pad and a pen he could click in (so that he wouldn't accidentally scar any of the texts).

By the time he settled, he wasn't visible from the front of the room, where the walkway had been cleared for the window and desk.

Sam got into a pretty zen state after a couple hours. He went through book after book, _The Five Books of Mystery_ , _Mahanirvana Tantra_ , _Carmina Gadelica_ , _De Imaginum Compositione_ , _The Zend Avesta_ , _Duncan's Masonic Ritual and Monitor_ , _The Atharva-Veda_ , _Legemeton_ , and _Sword of Moses_ , fingers flipping through pages and running over the slightly raised words, feeling them as he read them, looking for ancient human symbols to use as weapons and anything that could help Dean.

He would sketch out symbols he found out on the legal pad. He'd never been much of an artist, but after having drawn sigils on doorways for years, he was pretty good at getting the geometric shapes out in pretty good proportion and detail. When he was done drawing, he would turn the sheet over and write down the details on the other side for reference. Not that it'd let them know much about what it would do when drawn on him. Hell, the trap they'd used on Meg had been a combination of two different sigils from the _Key of Solomon_ , with a hexagon added and more Hebrew written into the outer circle. To make things potent, apparently you had to take some artistic license. It would be difficult to tell what each item did until they tested them out.

Dean had one book, and he was trying to read it, the book propped up on his knees, his brow furrowed deep, tongue wetting his lips every one and a half minutes, or his teeth sinking into his lower lip. It was a sourcebook, a primer, on magical theory: _Of Occult Philosophy I: Natural Magic_. He'd tried looking for information in more complex books, earlier, but the specialized terminology and frequent biblical references and the references to texts more obscure had been mind boggling and he'd given up in frustration. He was giving up in frustration now. He was in the process. (Even the basics were more of the same.) Any minute now, he would throw the book as hard as he could because he couldn't understand more than five words together. He could feel the impulse simmering beneath his breast.

Dean shut the book in his lap.

"You need coffee?"

He had an itchy need to move, to make some kind of tangible contribution, to go pick on Chris (watching TV in the living room) and maybe make him cry like a girl. He wasn't stupid. He didn't feel stupid. He could jury rig electronics and build a car from the ground up, from memory, _with his bare hands_. (Okay. With a couple of wrenches.) Sam couldn't do those things, and Dean could _read_ books. It was just a lot of stuff he'd never heard before and still didn't completely believe in. It was too much all at once. It was harder because he was afraid he needed it, now, and he'd started too late.

It just had never been Dean's place in the family dynamic. Dean had been trained, built in his Winchester way, to be the front man. To take point. To take rock salt to the chest and still win a fight. Sam, the youngest, had been taught Latin at the same time he'd been taught English. He'd been left at home from the age of nine up while his father and brother hunted and he was used to contributing through his reading. It was why they made such an effective team together.

Maybe John had always intended his sons to work as a unit, but if that was true, they would never know. Getting information they _needed_ out of their father was an exercise in pain and bullheadedness that the world had never before known. They didn’t ask for trivia.

"Yeah, coffee'd be good," Sam responded. "Hey, I haven't hit anything Egyptian yet. Like...anything. Tell me if you spot any." 

"Alright. Sure. I'll look around when I get back."

Dean pushed himself to his feet, dusting himself off and heading into the kitchen, starting the coffee maker up, with a clear view into the living room. Joshua and Nitya were nowhere to be seen. Chris's blonde head stuck up over the back of the old leather couch, and the collar of his preppy, branded Tommy Hilfiger shirt. He wore it almost every day, the same blue red and white logo on the front, cotton stained with blood this morning. It was the only thing he had that fit him. He looked even stringier in Dean's shirts, and Dean's pants barely stayed up. Taking him out and buying him things smacked of a commitment Dean didn't want to make; that moment a person stopped leaving food out for the dog and let it into their house to eat in the kitchen.

He had to go out today, anyway.

"Hey," he said, and Chris jumped to, glancing over his shoulder with a face that wasn't positive it was _him_ Dean was talking to. "I'm gonna go grab a haircut -- that town we passed through on the way. If you wanna get some clothes or somethin'..."

"If you could drop me off at a store..." There was a meek optimism in the demon's voice.

"That's the idea," Dean grunted. "I saw a Wal-Mart."

Chris waited, as if he expected more, but Dean poured two cups of coffee and left him there.

When Dean stepped through the door of the backroom, a long arm, with a hand holding a fairly modern looking book, shot up from the stacks.

"I got it."

A little buzz of expectation picked up Dean's step as he navigated his way through the books, coffee mugs in both hands. He stepped over the last precariously balanced volumes and then passed a cup down to his brother, taking a seat beside him.

"Hit me with it."

"Totally not relevant to me. Or, well, I don't _intend_ it to be, anyways," Sam responded, lowering the book and opening it with one hand, taking the coffee with the other one. He took a sip, finding the heat intense and it scalded his tongue pleasantly. He drank it lovingly.

"The Khamsa," he said, setting his coffee down beside him. "It's Arabic. Also known as the Hand of Fatima or the Eye of Fatima. It's a symbol used on talismans, doorways, amulets...all sorts. But here's the important bit -- it wards off the evil eye. Or, in some legends, represents the protective hand of Allah."

Dean looked at his little brother blankly.

"...and?"

Sam looked up.

"And I want you to get a tattoo. Like, the permanent kind."

Dean's forehead knit. Sam won for non sequitur. He got the _trophy_.

A tattoo, huh?

"I kinda always wanted a tiger." A sixteen year old's grin, cocky and presumptive, snuck onto lips. He thumped his right shoulder with his fist. "On my boob." 

"Despite all those letters to Santa, you don't have boobs," Sam responded in the voice that was too flat and serious for him to have gotten the joke. "But I'm thinking...I mean, you don't effect the symbols, or...they don't effect you, whatever. But maybe there's something we could do with it to make it effective? Make you...sound proof? This could mean that you could come with us, that you'd be safe." Sam looked up at him, hopeful and determined.

Dean examined again the image Sam wanted to ink in his skin. It was a hand, palm out, three middle fingers together and erect with the thumb and pinky small and curving out to the sides, and a wide, open eye staring out from the center of the palm. 

"Kind of weird lookin', but I can work it."

Sam looked his brother over analytically. 

"I'd immediately think the head, since that's the place we wanna keep safe, but I'm not sure tattooing something over your face is going to make us inconspicuous.... Maybe the back of the neck? Or maybe I'm being too literal. Maybe it should be the center of the body, the sternum...Or, no...Crap," Sam rubbed his forehead. "Chakras, crap...Where was that?" He knew the basics of the chakras, the seven centers of meta and biophysical energy that regulated the human body, but not all the terms. He crawled forward, ducking under a board that had been placed over the books as a sort of shelf, but ended up as more of a bridge with more books piled on it. Sam belly crawled over the floor, disappearing into the books, and his voice emerged from the little cave formed by them. "The solar plexus! Manipura. Power and control, will and autonomy, as well as the freedom to be oneself, and mental powers and abilities."

Dean shook his head. At least the coffee was good and strong and black. Most of the words sounded like English, but they meant nothing.

"There is no one in America more nerdtastic than you, man."

"Yeah, I love you, too," Sam returned in the same book-interested tone. It was possible he _was_ actually speaking to the book and not Dean. "So, how would we make it effective?" Sam began to shimmy out from his cave.

"Sacrifice a goat?" Dean offered, not completely trying to be an asshole.

"I've never heard of any rituals that just magically make these things effective," Sam sighed in frustration. "Someone would have _found_ them before us." He rubbed his mouth slowly. "But...I mean, the Devil's Trap, and the Fourth Pentacle of Mars...They just _worked_ , right? Or, at least, the Pentacle did," he muttered to himself, realizing the Devil's Trap had never actually been tested, just drawn on the Impala’s trunk. "Because it was an interaction between that sigil and Meg. Maybe just putting the symbol on you would be enough. It's the same basic principle. Just the difference is instead of a demon trying to break out of a space, this would be a demon trying to break into a person."

"That stuff doesn't just work on you. Salt, holy water, the Devil's Trap. We've never had a problem." He hung up a second when he realized what he'd said. _You_. That difference, that distance between them. His speech halted up, but he forced himself past it. "...hexes, curses, those things work on people. Didn't Ruth say she did some kind of spell on us?"

"A protective spell, yeah," Sam felt his own voice a little weak, arms resting on his propped up knees, long legs gracelessly parted like a child's. He coughed and tried to reel himself back in. "But my body’s completely human. That's why holy water et cetera doesn't work on me." He lifted a hand, pinkie pressing into his ear to scratch it as an absent motion, something to power himself through the rest of what he had to say. "I'm not _possessed_ , I'm just...you know. Evil. I guess...we could just get it tattooed on you and then see if I can still read your mind." Then again, if they did that, they might have missed their only chance, if the symbol had to be placed with some ritual or Latin chant or transfer of whatever power Sam had into Dean's skin or _something_. 

Dean didn't muffle the way he scoffed at the idea of Sam as any more evil than...well, him. He shrugged loosely, shoulders slouched, drank another bitter sip of coffee.

"If we're gonna do it, let's go the whole nine yards. Dance naked and baste ourselves in herbs and burn a wicker man and pray the rosary. I don't wanna play dice with this. We don't have time to mess around."

Sam scooted one leg in, clasping his ankle with both hands as he thought this over and nodded. 

"Alright. Everything I can find, then..." His eyes flicked to Dean's stomach. "That point on the body makes sense in another way too. I mean...It's...You know, where the two of us were connected. The umbilical chord." Sam could see it ritualistically, like a line that tied the two of them together, through the womb they'd both grown in, or at least the womb that this body had grown in. He hoped the ritualistic significance would be enough to lend Dean some more protection.

"Does that mat--No. Forget it. Everything you can think of." Dean promised himself he'd put his pride aside. If he had to do the most retarded, emasculating thing he'd ever heard of, it'd be worth it to keep Sam safe. As long as they kept it secret. Very secret. Forever. "How about you? Chris made it sound like you two didn't have to worry. You tried gettin' in his head?"

Sam shook his head a little.

"I'm not good at controlling these things...You're like some kind of radio station, always broadcasting. Ever since I woke up from the coma. Everyone else is...you know, quiet. Normal. I haven't really...attempted to read anyone else." He shrugged a little, helplessly. He hated his powers, so even when he had some modicum of control, he tended not to exert them.

"It'd help if you could crack that rotten melon of his," Dean muttered. He pushed his fingers through his long hair. "Man...Chris. I told him I'd let him buy some clothes. I gotta find a hair place. That okay with you?"

"Yeah...And I'll give that a try, but I'm not sure how successful it'll be," Sam responded. After all, Chris had only said that Dean would be in danger, not him or Sam. Chris certainly hadn't been able to read Sam or Dean's mind while they'd been together, or else he would have known they were brothers right off the bat. "I'll stay here, get what we need together."

Dean finished his coffee in one long drink and sat the mug on top of a pile of books, rising from the crowded floor.

"Call my cell if you need me to pick somethin' up."

\----

Dean waited outside the sprawling, blue Wal-Mart for six minutes, hair cropped short and the car slowly heating up under the afternoon sun, watching the door for the one skinny blonde he didn’t want in his passenger’s seat. When no demon produced itself, he climbed out of the car and crossed the wide parking, entering the super store through the wide, sliding glass doors, smiling genially to the wizened greeter. Chris was in the first place he looked, still in the clothing department, holding a couple outfits in his left hand and going through a rack. Dean interposed himself in his space.

“What’s takin’ you so long in here?” He thumbed through the hangers in Chris’s hand. “This is all you got?”

Chris shied away from Dean’s sudden appearance, eyes darting over the taller man.

“I was trying stuff on. Sorry I don’t dress like…”

“Like what?” Dean challenged.

“--like a _redneck_ ,” Chris finished boldly, longing for Hollister.

“Kansas, born and bred.” Dean only puffed up proud.

Chris gave Dean’s attire another disparaging appraisal, holding fast to his polo shirts.

“What’s that necklace of yours?” Displeasure turned towards interest in his voice.

Dean glanced down at the golden, cow eared, cow horned woman dangling from her leather cord, placid and reposed.

“It’s Egyptian. Hathor.”

“Can I look at it?” Chris asked hesitantly.

Dean’s first impulse was to snap _Fuck off_ , but it seemed a little disproportionate.

“Yeah. Just watch your hands.”

The demon took a tentative step closer, reaching out to lift the heavy, shaped metal from Dean’s chest to look at it in the store’s fluorescent lights. Chris didn’t even register as a threat. He had no muscle to him, and his pale eyes and blonde complexion lent a weak and fragile quality. Not even the beard growing on him from days without shaving squared up his youthful face. Dean could break him over his knee and not think twice about it, but then, none of Chris’s tricks had been physical.

Dean’s eyes narrowed as the demon’s expression shifted from curiosity to understanding.

“You really wear it all the time…”

Chris’s hand was smacked away with a crack that turned heads aisles over, and he started backpedaling right away:

“I wasn’t _trying_ to read it. I think it’s cool. Seriously!”

“You’re not wearin’ out your welcome,” Dean reassured him cooly. “You never had one.”

“I’m just gonna…grab a couple more shirts, and find some shoes.” Chris’s tone remained apologetic. “It’d be great if I could, you know, not screw up with you guys for even three hours.”

Dean leaned against the clothing rack, beaming a smile at a cute Hispanic girl on her way to the women’s aisles.

“Chris, man, to do that…you’d have to not screw up for three hours.”

\----

After Dean left, Sam had to enlist Joshua and Nitya's help. Some of the materials he wanted were pretty obscure. Rosewater to holy water. The entrails of a deer. Iron shaped into an equilateral cross and purple candles with a blessed nail to carve into them with. The ever useful salt. Chicken's blood, human ash, grave dirt. The list went on. Sam went everywhere from Santeria to Mesopotamia, hitting on Christianity and Islam on the way. They had no idea what would or wouldn't work -- the hope was that if they did _everything_ then maybe _something_ would stick.

"How are you planning to ink him?" Joshua asked, coming back to the house after a long drive over the flat countryside with deer entrails from an elk hunting buddy, a live chicken in a mesh cage, and a Ziploc bag of ash he'd pilfered from a cremation jar while the farmer wrangled the chicken.

Sam was holding a bolline, using it to cut up the fresh plants he'd cut from Nitya's garden, putting them into different bags with labels like "bergamot", "anise seed" and "sandalwood". He smelled kinda fruity. In more than one way. He made a face.

"I dunno...I'd rather not have to do it myself. Know anyone who won't have a problem with us burning and chanting things while they tattoo him?"

Joshua glanced down, scratching his multi-patterned arm like he just noticed an itch, considering.

"The guy who does my work's pretty open minded. I'd call him a friend. I don't think he'd like us killing a chicken in his shop, but I can give him a call and see if he'll come to the house. Tell him it's a coming of age ritual in Dean's religion, or...I'll think of something."

"That'd be good." Sam nodded slightly. If nothing else, Sam wanted the different colors that a professional could get -- not for the aesthetics, of course, but because even colors had significance in Paganism.

By the time Dean got back, the living room was covered in ritual materials, spread out and labeled, with scraps and sheets of paper beside them detailing practices pulled from all manner of tomes. The dogs were sitting on the kitchen floor, tails thumping on the pale yellow linoleum, watching the flustered chicken on top of their refrigerator.

Dean felt an inkling of self consciousness at the scene. He wasn't high maintenance. He didn't require much beyond snack food and the occasional beer to keep doing what he did. He was used to taking care of other people, not having three people waste their whole afternoon on him. He picked up a green candle in a glass jar, reading the brightly colored paper label: _Rue Candle: Veladora de Ruda_.

Sam watched Dean wander around in his peripheral vision, not looking up from the book that rested against his leg and the edge of the table. He was twirling the bolline absently in his free hand.

"Hey Dean, you're not allowed to eat. You're going to fast from the time the sunsets -- which is in like...fifteen minutes -- until we're done with this. Which will be sunset tomorrow."

"...dude, are you kidding me? I didn't even eat dinner yet." Dean sat down the candle back down on the coffee table, looking longingly towards the old refrigerator. "I've got fifteen minutes?"

"Fifteen minutes," Sam responded, looking up from his book sharply.

Chris came in the door, carrying a Wal-Mart bag in one hand and a cheap, empty suitcase over his shoulder while Dean ducked away from Sam's pointed look and made a beeline for the refrigerator.

The demon surveyed the scene, looking for a place to put down his stuff. He settled for a relatively clutter-free corner with a standing lamp.

"What are you doing in here?" Chris grimaced at the wicked ceremonial dagger lying beside several tall candles. "I'd hate to see what that’s for."

"I'm sure you would," Sam responded, standing up. He glanced out the window, checking that the sun was _definitely_ still up and went to clean the bolline and put it away. He didn't say anymore, keeping Chris on their usual need-to-know basis.

Chris sat on the floor taking tags off clothing and his toothbrush and toothpaste and his new razor out of their packaging while Dean tore through sandwich meat and chips, cold pizza and string cheese, and guzzled two beers.

Dean slumped against his seat as Sam announced sundown, belching the swallowed air of a quarter hour's gluttony out of his stomach.

"Charming," Sam muttered.

\----

The next day was a busy day.

It started early, and in the shower. Sam had managed to shove Dean out of bed around eight, urging him to get undressed and into the shower.

The morning before had set a precedent for 'ways Dean wanted to wake up,' and Dean's initial and fond hope was that Sam had thought of something even better. Something that involved Sam soaking wet and slippery. He never needed much provocation to take his clothes off. He followed orders without complaint.

Dean was lucky, Sam stripped, too, getting into the shower with his brother.

Dean stood under the spray, short hair flattening under the weight of the water, and he checked Sam out: that massive, fit body that took up most of a small stall shower like the one they'd squeezed into, the mist from the shower’s spray beginning to cling to Sam’s skin. One eyebrow crept higher than the other.

"What've I done right this week? I wanna keep doin' it."

"Well, I can tell you the punching me in the face definitely _wasn't_ it," Sam responded, but his tone was teasing, not serious. There wasn't a whole lot of room in the shower, but there was enough. He smoothed his hands over Dean's sides. "But in this case, this is the first of many rituals we're going to be going through today."

Dean's muscles twitched underneath Sam's fingers. He exhaled a long breath and let his body relax, licking the water from his lips, rivulets reflecting light off his cheeks and his shoulders.

"I'm _sold_ on Paganism. Sign me up."

Sam smirked a little.

He leaned in and kissed Dean, tasting the rotten egg flavor of the water that Nevada seemed to have. There was absolutely no way they were going to get through this _without_ getting hard, so Sam made the executive decision to take care of it first, before starting the rite. Sam ran his fingers over the slick skin of his brother, moving them in carefully memorized patterns, letters and promises that made the water feel strange and slow after awhile. Winchesters weren't made for delicacy. As well as Sam knew his rituals, he also knew today was going to be one long play of trying to look like he even had the faintest idea of what he was doing.

Dean didn't know if this was part of the ritual. He'd _heard_ things about spell casting. Rumors involving nudity and setting stuff on fire. He had to reevaluate his position on the whole mystical hoodoo alchemy business. He was one hundred percent behind getting naked and burning things. Those two activities were within his _forte_.

He let Sam lead him, because Sam had been having _excellent_ ideas in the past forty-eight hours. He stepped back against the shower wall and he felt the tiny tiles cold against his skin and Sam's tongue lapping the underside of his own, and relaxed his weight between that hard surface and Sam's hard body, an arm hooked loosely over Sam's shoulder. He pushed his hips needy against the flat of Sam's belly, Sam's dark hair ticklish and their stiff erections sliding together, flushed and glistening wet, almost obscene. 

Sam's chest expanded as he drew in a sharp breath through his nose, pressing his hips in against Dean's, moving his hand down his brother's side. He drew his own hips back a little to shift his hand between them, taking their erections into his grasp, holding them together, against one another. He laughed a little, against Dean's lips.

"That's...bizarre," he muttered, over the sensation, but then hissed when his hips moved, and he felt himself rubbing against Dean. "And...kinda hot."

"Kinda...?" Dean breathed, disbelieving. The taut skin was smooth and supple, giving slightly against the hard flesh beneath, and he knew how a dick felt under his hand, his and Sam's both, but not how it felt against skin so sensitive -- like being inside a woman and stranger than that, cool air where Sam's fingers and his cock weren't hot against him. Dean was lucky he had a lot of security, because _damn_ if every part of Sam wasn't as big as the rest and with their arousal hardening between them he didn't need to find a ruler.

Sam lowered his head, until his forehead rested on Dean's shoulder, and he leaned to the side of bite and lick the side of his brother's neck, his hand tightening reflexively. He moved his body against Dean, stuttering breathes escaping his lips. Every time he drew his hips forwards or backwards, he felt something pleasant and electric run up his spine, the water washing down over the both of them.

Dean's fingers tightened in Sam's scruffy hair, weight hanging on Sam's shoulder, pushing his feet up against the mildew-darkened, white tile floor as he started losing traction. It was another point for Sam's monogamy business, the things that could only be figured out by a length of familiarity that led to experimentation. His hips pushed, too, slow thrusts, everything slick.

It didn't take long, Sam panting against Dean's collarbone, Dean's fingers in Sam's hair, until Sam came with a strangled noise.

Dean voiced a throaty chuckle as Sam's cum hit his tense stomach, a sticky compliment. He guided Sam's hand to his erection, alone, closed Sam's fingers around the shaft, holding Sam's hand in his, and worked himself four long strokes, a hand still knotted in Sam's tangled hair. His orgasm quaked through him, his head hit the wall of the shower, leaving him breathless with a sated smile.

Sam lifted his head, taking Dean's lips with his own, still slowly palming his brother's softening erection as Dean’s orgasm passed. His breathing slowed as he pulled back, and smiled a little.

"Good?"

"Was that it? The ritual?" Dean asked, cracking one eye.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"No, that was the inevitable," Sam stepped back, his hands cleaning their semen off their bodies. "Now we do the purifying."

"...purifying? I'm gonna take a _lot_ of purifying. That had to be a mortal sin right there." The shower stall itself didn't say 'pure', in need of a few scrubbing bubbles.

"That's why you're going through like eight purifying rituals before lunchtime. And when I say lunchtime, I mean _my_ lunchtime," Sam turned the water off, reaching outside to the counter top for a bottle of diluted oil. The reality was that they were going to do rituals from different practices and religions with the hope that they would hit the effective one. It was more amusing to phrase it the other way.

Dean rolled his eyes in turn.

"I bet this is your favorite day in a _long_ time."

"The day I get to cover you in all sorts of girly smelling things, deprive you of food and alcohol, get you to try and speak Arabic, and make fun of you the whole time? No. Why would you think that, brother?" Sam responded with saccharine sincerity, toweling Dean dry, then pouring the oil over him.

"You think you're so cute, but you are _not cute_ ," Dean groused, holding his arms out to his sides as the viscous stuff ran down his naked body. 

"That's what you say until you wake up with me giving you a blow job, then you sing a different tune." Sam made sure the oil was covering as much of Dean's body as he could before they stepped out. He was able to soap the stuff off his hands, but Dean was stuck being greasy and smelling like flowers.

The day progressed with its share of antics. Most of which made both Dean and Sam feel universally silly. They locked Chris up in the attic so that he wouldn't bother them or figure out what they were doing. They burned sage and cedar and motherwort. The chicken met its demise, and when its blood was spent it found itself in a tandoor, a clay oven, baking its way to chicken tikka. They shook rattles and cast circles and prayed to gods Dean had never heard of.

Sam broke for lunch with Joshua and his wife, but Dean had to stay outside in a ritual circle, burnt offerings at the four quarters, trying to meditate (inhale seven seconds, hold seven seconds, exhale seven seconds), until they were done. By the time sundown came, and Joshua's friend arrived to get the tattoo actually placed, even Sam was feeling pretty tired.

"So, one more time..." Dean insisted lowly, standing in the hallway with his shirt off and smelling like a dirty hippy while Nitya lit candles and the tattoo artist got his area set up. "I read this card twenty times while he puts the tat on and then I say this prayer, and if I Klaatu Verata achoo this, it probably won't work?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Sam responded, looking up from where he was talking with the artist, showing him the design and telling him the specific colors each section needed to be.

Dean grimaced at the Arabic scrawled phonetically across the index card, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was as exhausted as if he'd been on a hard backcountry hunt. His stomach had descended past grumbling to a state of dull hunger pain. He felt violated in ways he had never imagined, but he guessed he was the purest person in the state of Nevada. (That might have been more difficult to say in a state like Iowa or Wisconsin without casinos and legally sanctioned bordellos.) He intended to undo that state as swiftly as he could come the next morning, and he intended it to involve his little brother's tight ass.

The process itself took awhile, the ink injected into Dean's skin slowly, painfully. Sam sat nearby and watched. It sucked to have to try and pronounce Arabic while going through that, while the guy putting it on was giving them looks that clearly said 'wackos'. 

It'd be worth it though, if it meant Dean could stay with his brother.

Neither of them were good with things like this. John Winchester had believed firmly in the power of man, and that alone, and he had trained his boys to fight with hands and with weapons, not to fight with the powers that bridged the gap between human and the supernatural. Exorcisms were the closest they got. Sam was aware that any witch worth her salt would have laughed out loud at their shabby, poorly performed rituals, as if they'd gotten all their ideas out of a book written by someone named after a cutesy animal. But it was all they had. Winchester style, bootleg magic was the best they had going for them.

_Fa anta rojaaii yaa ilaahii wa sayyidii faghul lamiimal jaisyi in roomi bii gholat._

Dean had said the words so many times, they would have lost all meaning if they meant anything to him to begin with. He counted the repetitions on the fingers of his right hand, ignoring the tingling pain and discomfort of the tiny needles stabbing mechanically over and over into flesh of his abdomen. Candles flickered before him, and in the peripheral of his vision, but the scene wasn't mystically atmospheric, the tattoo artist needed electric light to do his work. Everything was putting off scents -- the candles, plates of burning herbs, and the herbs on Dean's body, but Dean's nose had gotten such a workout he could barely smell anymore. He breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers ticked off twenty. He took a deep breath.

"Saint Michael the Archangel--" It was ridiculous. He didn't even believe in angels. "--defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and _snares_ of the _devil_." He couldn't help but fall into melodramatic emphasis. Everyone was watching him. "May God rebuke him, we humbly pray." He tried to straighten it out. He wasn't feeling real humble, just dog tired. "And _you_ , Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of _God_ , thrust into Hell Satan and the other evil spirits who prowl the world for the ruin of souls." He guessed that meant Sam. "Amen."

It was right then that he realized what he was giving up. He was glad Sam had practiced up not being in his head all the time. He could've lost himself in that, shut off from the rest of the world because the only person who mattered was completely intimate with him. But if their whole day of mixed-culture rituals didn't turn out a total waste, they wouldn't share that intimacy again. There would be no dreams between them Sam could reach out to him in if Sam was scared and alone in his sleep. They could share no intimate thoughts to prove their identity beyond doubt if it was called into question. He looked down at the tattoo stabbing deep under his skin and if he could have he might have willed it away, but the ink was indelible.

Sam chewed at his lower lip, fingers rubbing over the amulet of the ancient goddess that Dean always wore. It had to be removed during the day, or else get doused in various dubious materials, and Sam had worn it in his place. He stood outside the circle they'd enclosed Dean and the tattooist in, waiting and worrying. 

The Khamsa was carved permanently into Dean, and when it was over, the skin around it was red and angry. Sam rested his hand over the same point on his own body, over the omphalus, the scar left on his body where the blood that flowed in Dean had flowed into him, too, once, inside of Mary Winchester's belly.

When Dean stepped out of the circle and Sam tried to read his thoughts, the only thing he seemed to have control over when it came to his powers. He found nothing but a blank, wordless wall. He leaned over, resting a hand on his knees.

"It worked."

Dean swallowed, and he wished he could feel enthusiastic about that. He wondered which _part_ worked. He glanced at Joshua and Nitya, and then at the tattoo artist he hadn't even been introduced to.

"Thanks," he said to the guy, rough edges to his voice. The man had put up with a lot of weird.

He thought as loud as he could as the tattoo artist packed up and Joshua paid him for his work. He thought about a lot of nothing. He thought about complete nonsense and _Hey, Hey, Sam, you sure?_

Sam gave him no reaction. They sat there on the couch together, unwinding from a long day while Nitya blew out candles.

Finally, Sam stood up, clearing his throat. 

"C'mon...You probably wanna shower that crap off. I'll bring you some food."

Dean nodded and got to his feet, waving the smoky, stinky air from his face. All the soap in the world didn't sound like enough. There was a thin layer of grease all over his body except where his skin had been cleaned for the tattoo. His hair was matted with essential oils and oils that were probably less than essential. He looked around the room at all the strange paraphernalia that had been used on his person in the past eighteen hours.

"I feel like we're forgettin' somethin'."

It wasn't until the next morning that anyone remembered to let Chris out.


	20. Chapter 20

The third morning the Winchester brothers slept at Joshua's small Nevada ranch, Dean woke up first to Sam's sleeping face. He looked peaceful underneath all the bed head (stray hairs flying in strange directions). He looked innocent. He looked...sweet. A little pout to his lower lip, his fingers curled against Dean's chest.

Dean was so ready to sodomize that.

He disentangled himself from Sam's larger mass, opening his bag and searching around. 

Vaseline was required for this mission.

Dean smiled ear to ear as his hand closed around the bottle. He tossed it up in the air, watching it spin, and caught it in his palm. 

Sam slept on, unawares, curled in the warm space on the mattress Dean had vacated. Dean gazed down on him and shook his head, setting the Vaseline on the chipped corner of the nightstand. He visually confirmed the lock was depressed on the door and then stripped his black t-shirt off over his head. He climbed slowly onto the edge of his bed, only cautiously shifting his weight off the floor. He surveyed the miles of _Sam_ laid out before him, Sam's formidable back and the shape of his long legs underneath the covers -- and it was good. He crept across the mattress, slid a hand between the edge of Sam's nightshirt and the waistband of his sweats and massaged gentle circles and stroked Sam’s side until Sam shifted under the covers and stirred with a sigh of comfort. Dean grinned with his own profane pleasure and then sedately leaned in and pursed his lips, blowing cool air over Sam's left ear, ruffling his unkempt hair.

Sam stirred and made a low noise, back arching and causing his torso to rise as he stretched into wakefulness, shifting onto his back, Dean’s hand sliding onto his abdomen.

Sam never woke slow. He always went from asleep to awake in one move, and this morning was no exception. When his body relaxed from the stretch he took in a breath and opened his eyes without blinking.

"Hey," he muttered, closing one eye as Dean's breath ruffled his hair.

The corners of Dean's lips tugged back fondly. All his intentions were devious, and still he felt an extraordinary kind of affection, a warmth in his breast that was definitely love. This poor unsuspecting bastard was _his_ poor unsuspecting bastard. His fingers scratched affectionately between the hard muscle of Sam's stomach. His eyebrows crept up thoughtfully, but he was suddenly straight-faced when he said:

"Lemmie in your pants."

Sam lifted a hand to rub his forehead and gave Dean an uncomprehending look. His eyes ran over Dean's face, and then he smiled a little. Not a knowing smile, or a sexual smile, but a sort of cheerful, affectionate smile, as if Dean had just said something deep and meaningful. He hadn't, of course, but Sam seemed to get it anyways. 

He moved his hand down his own body, covering the one over his stomach. He moved their joined hands underneath the waistband of his sweatpants, over the soft part of his belly, to the apex of his legs, their fingers overlapping.

Expressions passed over Dean's mobile face, alternating wonder and appreciation, love and undeniable lust. It had been months, and Sam still turned him on like nothing he'd known. Their hands moved through the curls of hair to find Sam's cock, soft and relaxed between his legs. Dean sucked in air as arousal shivered through his stomach, stirring a promising ache inside him. He shook his head, his voice husky with sleep and awakening desire, his green eyes half-lidded, his lips smug.

"I wanna ride you like Patrick Bateman in 'American Psycho'."

Sam didn't say anything, for once not rolling his eyes or snarking something in return to Dean's strange version of bed-talk. Instead he let his eyes shut as he inhaled deep and slow, as their fingers moved around his length, and he felt himself begin to respond, shifting one leg to prop it up, muscles beginning to tense. 

Sam reached up with his free hand, pulling Dean's head down to him, lifting his own to press his lips wet and intense to the side of Dean's neck, pressing the tip of his tongue against the rough skin there.

 _This_ was the Sam Dean wanted. Sam comfortably sexual. Sam willing to get a little dirty. Dean felt Sam's cock growing heavy in his hand, and his smile returned with his amazement. They never seemed to get a break. It had been one crisis to the next, something tripping them up as soon as they found their footing since life tanked downhill in Salvation, Iowa. Now, it would be following a demon they didn't trust into a dangerous unknown, but Dean thought if he could just have one moment, one morning, a little stolen time with just the two of them, if living could be fun again even for only a minute, he could still see it all through.

"Do you know how _incredibly_ sexy you are? Did you get that memo?" The words were teasing, but there was adulation dusky in them. His thumb carefully grazed the sensitive slit of Sam's half-formed erection, not roused enough yet to ease its vulnerability with precum, and went back to massaging beneath it, encouraging the blood pulsing beneath Sam's skin. "I heard there's an ad campaign in Wyoming."

Sam couldn't hear him. He heard his _words_ , but he'd never before realized that even when he was trying to block out Dean's thought there was still an undercurrent running between them. One that was, of course, no longer there. Sam swallowed and pursed his lips against Dean's throat, moving a little lower to kiss the chord of muscle that bound his powerful shoulders to his neck. 

Sam knew that this was what Dean wanted. Dean tried to give Sam what he wanted. Sam would try to give Dean something back too. 

He smiled at his brother's words, feeling the need to duck his head a little under the praise, but settled to kiss over his sibling's shoulder, breath picking up. He made a small sound as Dean's fingers (and therefore his own) ran over the sensitive underside of his cock.

"What do you want, Dean?" he asked, his voice still a little low from just having woken up. Dean wanted to talk, wanted to say things that were heavy with filthy sexuality, and Sam asked him the question that was a permission to open that gate, walk right through and do and say what he wanted to.

His hand on Dean's neck drifted over the ridges of his vertebrae, to the nodule of his spine, pressing careful against the pressure point there.

Sam's permission filled Dean up with light like Dean's praise did Sam. He grinned, perverse and playful, while Sam's lips and hands coaxed his body awake to possibilities. For all he hadn't gotten to have a real childhood, he still met the world like a kid, enthused with small pleasures. 

"...'wanna set up camp in my favorite place in the whole damn world and rough it another week," he announced, exaggerated in his metaphor. His eyes trailed down to his borrowed boxers, where an erection of his own was coming to life. "Already pitched myself a tent."

"Yeah?" Sam smiled a little, swallowing down his usual urges to mock said exaggerated metaphor. "What place is that?" He dragged his brother's fingers down to the base of his hardness, letting out a short groan as he pressed Dean's hand against that sensitive point down there, underneath him. "God..." He took a moment to swallow a breath. "Tell me what you wanna do..." Sam wasn't good at talking dirty. Bed was, in fact, one of the few places where Sam just shut up. But Dean wanted him to talk, and he did his best. He stuck to encouraging his sibling, kissing the older man slowly for a moment. "Tell me what you wanna do to me."

For once in Dean's life, Sam was encouraging his scampish, juvenile thrill for the carnal side of life, and Dean couldn't have been more smitten. Sam was no more at home with bed play than Dean was in a bookstore, but it didn't matter how clumsy Sam's attempts were. Dean didn't need Sam to be Don Juan. The sentiment turned him on all by itself.

"I wanna give your ass a workout. I wanna get up inside you so deep I drown. I wanna fuck you so hard the only thing you remember is my name.” Dean said whatever came to mind, non sequitur and nasty, but it was all in mirth, taking it as far as it went for the unadulterated absurdity of saying it, while his hand pleasured the younger Winchester relentlessly, his eyes holding Sam's. “I want to make you so horny your balls crawl up in your stomach." He kissed him on the forehead, and on the corner of his mouth. "I wanna worship your entire body with my tongue...one more time. I want you to see Jesus in his lily white dress every time I make you come." A smirk. "I wanna brand my name in your skin so everybody who sees you knows exactly. What. I do to you." Smoldering and wicked. "I wanna swallow every last drop of cum inside you. That don't belong to nobody but me."

Sam laughed, but it wasn't mocking. He laughed happily, like he was honestly enjoying himself. Dean obviously was. Sam bucked up against his brother's hand, then pulled it out of his pants.

"Let's get on that, then..." He kissed him one more time, brief and hot, before using his propped up leg to suddenly roll them over, straddling Dean's waist. He kissed him again, pressing himself down against the straining erection tenting in Dean's pants, Sam's hands crawling up Dean’s sides and pulling his shirt with them.

Dean's head hit the pillow and he closed his eyes, legs trembling as Sam's body ground against him, building energy suddenly granted an outlet, but he got his wits together to watch Sam's shirt stretch over his head, all Sam's muscle shifting beneath the scars thin and white on his skin. He was ready to get his hands all over that, but they found the waist of Sam's sweats, instead, tugging them down on his hips.

They couldn't go down far, not with Sam sitting as he was, so Sam had to move away, off Dean's hips. He pulled his sweatpants down and off, discarding them on the floor.

"Get undressed," he told Dean, moving to the edge of the bed to go in search of the lube, but found the Vaseline on the bedside. He picked it up and looked back at his brother. "You're awfully prepared."

Dean's eyebrows mosied up as he shifted out of his boxers, and then threw them nonchalantly to the side.

"May have been planning to get unholy on your ass since last night." Maybe. "Got this _clean_ feeling all over." A part of him was missing. All his sins had been absolved.

Sam snorted but smirked.

"Not really the kind of purity those rituals were talking about...But I won't complain," he undid the Vaseline, reaching in for a healthy daub, lowering his hand to encircle his brother's erection. "You spend that much time thinking about my ass?"

Dean's breath hissed out slow, his eyelids struggling to stay open, brow knitting as his focus dropped sharply to his dick.

"Dude. If you have to ask that question you know _nothing_ about your ass."

"Yeah, well...It's not high on my list of priorities..." His fingers moved up and down his brother's length, thumb smearing across the head slowly. "Glad you seem to like it though."

A groan escaped Dean's throat that had no pride.

"Yeah," he managed, unsteady, and then, with certainty: "Don't worry. I got your ass _covered_. I'll introduce you sometime."

"That's a freakish mental image..." Sam leaned down and kissed Dean again. He wanted to give Dean what he wanted, but Sam was still incredibly involved in the kissing. He enjoyed it. He couldn't feel that undercurrent of Dean anymore, and it was weird because he honestly hadn't noticed it recently, thought he'd managed to totally cut out the whole telepathy thing, but apparently not, because now the silence blared around him, difficult to ignore.

"Stay like that," he said, leaning down to nip Dean's neck, spending a good minute or two kissing and suckling on that spot. He shifted to straddle the older man. "Is this okay?" he asked, the intended position obvious.

"That is _excellent_ ," Dean promised with his most earnest face, all sincerity, the traces of Sam's kisses cooling on his neck. Sam liked it on his back, and Dean liked to give him what he wanted, in sex and if Sam just wanted to make out all night, but _this_ was the perfect position to watch Sam being sexual, and god and the devil knew Dean loved that.

There was no difference for Dean in that severance of ties, only a tattoo sore on his stomach, its open eye staring up at the ceiling. Unless Sam answered his thoughts, he didn't know Sam was in his mind. If he felt the disconnection, it was mixed up with just _knowing_ that avenue of communication was gone. He felt that absence in his own, human way.

Sam nodded a little and lifted his hips, thighs tense to either side of Dean's body. He shifted back, reaching for Dean's dick, feeling it slick between his fingers, and he bit his lip as he attempted to angle himself (a little more difficult than he thought it'd be). He began to lower himself on to Dean, shifting himself to the side or back each time he felt a little pain, until he was resting on Dean's pelvis.

He wondered how sick he'd become that the feel of his brother's cock inside of him felt good, even without the pleasure of pressure against his prostate.

Dean watched himself sink inside Sam, his flushed cock slowly disappearing into the heat of Sam's pelvis, the muscles of Sam's stomach jumping with twitches and flinches, the concentration on Sam's face, like he was doing math, and Sam's big body relaxing as he engulfed the last inch of him. His body shuddered beneath the promise of Sam's weight. 

Sam smoothed his hands up Dean's torso, from his stomach to his chest. He looked down at him, not moving, but feeling his brother's presence inside him with every breath, every time the blood pumped in his veins and made his body throb around him.

"God, that feels..." he didn't finish his statement, shutting his eyes. He rocked a few times, back and forth, slowly.

Dean grunted, a guttural sound, as Sam began to move, and his hand touched Sam's forearm, rubbing his skin slow and encouraging, drinking in the sight of him, all that power, physical and metaphysical, and Sam in control, setting his own pace. Dean liked that a whole lot, as much as he liked his cock in the embrace of Sam's body -- sex where he could let himself go, and trust Sam to guide him. Sex where he could be himself without Sam's cutting cynicism. Another smile found his lips, as Sam’s hips rolled against his own, Sam’s thighs warm and hard against his sides. It was the strangest time to be proud of his brother.

Sam lifted one of his hands from Dean's stomach, running up to the hand Dean had placed on his forearm. He pressed his palm to his brother's and interlocked their fingers tightly, placing his other hand on the bed to get some leverage, to push himself back and forth. He began to pull his hips up and lower them, though he was forced to go slowly, making a tight noise in his throat. In between them, Sam's erection burned hard and hot, but Sam had reached the point of concentrating more on the feel of his brother moving in and out of him than anything else.

Dean swallowed, watching the muscles of Sam's thighs stretch and recede, watching himself appear and vanish like a magician's hat trick: _now you see it_... When he looked up at his brother's face he could see there was nothing on Sam's mind but him, that look on Sam where he got absorbed in a book, all that intense focus honed on one subject. It was exactly what Dean wanted from sex: Sam, and all of Sam. Between his thighs extraordinary sensations stirred, churned by Sam's drawn out movements, but it was still the sight of Sam that gripped Dean, the fact of being the only living person with a ticket to this singular show.

Sam's movements were limited in that he couldn't draw himself up fast enough to pick the rhythm of their sex up. They were confined to the long, slow draw of Dean's dick pulling out of him, then pushing back in. Every so often Dean'd run over that sensitive spot inside Sam and it would make his insides shudder and twitch, his breath hitching, and sometimes he'd freeze in place before sinking back down. Every time he felt like he was on the edge his body drew back, unable to get the high it needed from the slow fucking -- but it just made him harder, made him want it more. He threw his head back to breathe and his chest swelled with breath as he dragged it into his lungs, ribcage pressing prominent out under the bands of muscles.

Dean's one hand lay out to the side, Sam's fingers still clutching him. Sam kept raising and lowering himself, making low noises, verging on a kind of desperation as each drag of his brother's erection shuddered up his spine and made his internal muscles clench but didn't give him enough to come.

Dean watched him with wide eyes, every breath shaky, unsteady. His fingers dug into Sam's hand. It took all the skill he had, every little mental trick he knew, not to come inside of Sam and let it end too fast. His hips echoed Sam's motions, thrusting in time, shortening the distance Sam needed to move, halting when Sam froze -- Sam, with his hair falling back and his eyes closed like some sinful revelation.

"Let me take over a minute," Dean whispered, words thick in his throat and hard to come by and he made a sound to clear it, blinking against the sunlight spilling over the bed from the window. He was as hard as he'd ever been and he didn't want to come slow, like this, though letting Sam ride him was _quality_. Even so, the words were more of a request.

Sam let out a rasp of breath and stilled himself, sinking down fully onto Dean's cock. He opened his eyes, looking down at his brother, and he nodded a little, teeth playing on his lower lip as he released Dean's hand. He could see a red spot on his brother's neck, left by him.

He arched his back a little, carefully drawing himself forward, up and off Dean. He moved to the side, feeling too warm and his hand rested impatiently between his own legs. He shifted over, on to his knees and elbows, giving Dean the position that would give him the most leverage to go fast. 

"This good?" he asked.

Sudden uncertainty flickered over Dean's face, and he remembered the last time Sam had had his ass in the air, distant, electric lights casting strange shadows over Sam's body in the darkness, and the stink of stale sweat.

"That..." It was perfect. It was exactly what he wanted. And it was a position he'd managed to avoid letting Sam get into, ever, when he was leading their sex. "Sammy," he said brokenly, lying there with a throbbing hard on begging for what Sam was offering. "Back in Maine..." Regret sank through his arousal, though that cold spot in his stomach couldn't quench it. "I'm sorry, man."

Sam turned his head, looking over at Dean and he saw the expression on his brother's face, but he couldn't feel it. Things that you don't miss till they're gone. He reached out and took Dean's hand and lifted it to his face. He pressed his lips to the center of his brother’s palm -- not a quick, dry peck, but an eyes closed, firmly pressed kiss, lingering and wet.

"I love you," he said. He could say it and not sound girly, not sound mushy. He said it in that gravelly voice he had, the same kind of voice he used when he promised the demon that he would kill him. That kind of low, determined, crushing-intense voice. He moved Dean's hand down, between his legs, until it was pressed to Sam's throbbing hard on. "It's okay…You can go fast. I want you to," he rested on his elbow, dropping his head to rest his temple against the pillow, looking over at Dean still and his voice became a little more desperate, a little tighter. "I can't feel you, and I want to. Please."

A surge of deeper arousal battered the cold knotted inside of Dean and he nodded, understanding it was him, not Sam, taking pause. Understanding Sam needed him to act. His fingers closed around Sam's erection and he pumped once, letting Sam shiver through it.

"You better not come," he warned, warmth bleeding back into his voice. He'd already told Sam what he wanted -- though any 'punishment' would be a pleasure for both of them.

He sat up and rolled over, looking down Sam's spine to where his brother's head rested against the pillow, sliding his hands over Sam's buttocks until he found his grip to pull himself on him, and he steadied his cock with one hand and slowly pushed against the entrance to the depths within Sam offered up so welcomingly until he watched Sam's body part and his erection slide inside. He inhaled deeply, chasing off the last of his demons, pushed in smoothly, until his thighs pressed to Sam's, closed his eyes and brought himself back to the present, and then he let his hips roll like they wanted, sliding back and thrusting smoothly, once and twice slowly, and then a little harder, and a little faster. He watched Sam close as his body began to give in to the instinct of the thing, making certain; making sure.

Sam's head was hung between his shoulders, elbows resting on the bed. He felt his body rock with every thrust, Dean's pelvis meeting with the backs of his thighs.

"S’alright..." he murmured quiet encouragements, trying to let Dean know it was okay, that it wasn't like the last time that it'd been like this, that he wanted him. "Harder...it's okay, you can--...ung," he grunted, shutting his eyes. He couldn't _feel him_. He didn't know why this suddenly upset him so, but he knew that the sensation of Dean's cock driving into his body was offsetting it, distracting him from the lack of Dean in his head.

He thought he'd gotten this thing under control. He thought he'd blocked out all of Dean's thoughts, but he was deeply aware of the hollowness of it all now, when Dean was well and truly _not there_.

Dean let his focus ebb from his vision to sink between his legs, and his body picked up the pace with Sam's encouragement. He heard the slap of his skin against Sam's and the creaking of the old bed beneath them, felt his balls hitting the back of Sam’s thighs, but it seemed far away, his reality swallowed, once again, by his brother's body. He didn't know the difference when his eyes squeezed shut, as his fingers gripped tighter in the flesh of Sam's hip, his breath ragged on his lips, everything Sam and mine, mine, mine.

Dean's hands were possessive and bruising and god if Sam didn't find some kind of thrill in it, pleasure in the notion. He didn't know if it was the demon in him or the Winchester, and for a moment he almost laughed at how close the perversity of the two was.

It was the same moment that he felt Dean in him as deep as he could go and he arched his back and keened like an animal, and it was abundantly clear to him that his brother was the best thing in his life. Sam's hand flexed and he dragged his nails over the bedspread, gasping and panting, pressing the side of his face against the pillow. Dean was still thrusting into him, and he couldn't move enough, pressing back against every roll of the hips. He shifted his arms under him, pushing his head and shoulders up, off the bed, holding himself up on his hands and using the strength in his arms to shove himself back every time Dean thrust forward.

He felt like he wanted to shriek or yell or fucking howl, but he choked it back. He felt sweat dripping over his sides, and it felt like they'd been having sex for hours, and that was just fucking fine with Sam when he felt himself orgasm, taking air into his lungs but not stopping pushing back, even when his cock was spent, he kept pushing back into that sensation that still felt so good.

Dean's thrusts were short and powerful and he came buried deep inside Sam's body, seconds later, or maybe minutes -- time had stopped for the brothers Winchester, not for the first time. His hips still pumped against his brother, until he was too flaccid and over-stimulated and fucking had started to hurt. He pushed himself out of Sam and sat down on the bed, eyelids fluttering against post-coital exhaustion, a hand still resting on Sam's bruised flank.

Sam let out a low moan as Dean slipped out of him, and he felt fucked raw, which felt pretty good, in the scheme of things. He shifted to sit and felt that motion all up and down his body, from his ass up to his neck. He shifted around to bring himself closer to his brother, somehow lacing their legs together, tossing one over Dean's thigh and the other under a knee, until they were sitting intimately closer, chests less than six inches apart. Sam reached up and traced Dean's jaw with his fingers, holding his head for a moment as he leaned in, and when their lips met his arms came around him, one hand buried in Dean's hair and the other resting on his shoulder blade, arm draped around his neck.

Dean's mouth met Sam's insistently, a hand sliding between them to grasp the side of Sam's face and the other slipping down to discover if Sam was still hard. He kissed Sam still, as his hand found soft, exhausted skin, sucking at Sam's lower lip, then kissing him open mouthed, the passion that drove him to ride Sam so hard unabated. By the time they were done both their lips would be bruised, and Dean regretted not being able to get his mouth on Sam's cock -- but that just meant he'd get his mouth on it later.

Sam moved one hand down, covering Dean's, holding it over the soft organ, as if to say ' _you can be here, even when we're not having sex_ '. He could feel Dean's finger tips dragging over the overly sensitive flesh, feeling the aftershocks of pleasure running through him.

When they drew back, Sam's lips felt thick and hot, and he licked them even though they were already wet.

"I can't _feel_ you anymore...you're just... _gone_." It was a shock to suddenly realize that they'd never had sex without that undercurrent of Dean running into Sam's head.

"That's funny," Dean murmured, with that big brother bravado, that reassurance that he could still make _anything_ all right. "I thought I was the guy with his hand on your dick."

Sam snorted but smiled a little. 

"Not like _that_..." He shook his head a bit, then kissed Dean and let it go. It probably wasn't exactly natural for him to want Dean's thoughts all up in his head.

"Nothin' changed," Dean promised, even though Sam didn't push it, thumb brushing over Sam's ear. He hadn't woken up that morning ready to lie to Sam again, ready to fantasize about strange women and think backbiting thoughts...but Sam couldn't know that. Dean knew explicitly that they'd built their relationship on certainty, not trust. He needed Sam's trust, now.

Sam nodded a little, slowly, and lowered his head to rest on Dean's shoulder. His brother felt big and warm and powerful, and when Sam shut his eyes, one arm still around Dean (the other still between his legs with one of Dean's hands), he felt the safety of a brother and the memories of his youth even as Dean's fingers slid lazy over his dick. The fact that the two could merge and make him feel warm-fuzzy in his stomach was probably bad, but there wasn't much more downhill they could go from here. 

He opened his eyes and looked at Dean's neck, then smiled a little.

"...I gave you a hickey." Awesome.

Dean snorted, but he sounded real pleased.

"Oh yeah, you're playin' in the major league."

\----

"You feelin' any psychic radiation yet?"

Dean sipped his cheap, bitter Huddle House coffee, local Nevada newspaper spread out in front of him.

" _Emanations_ ," Chris corrected for the third time, still sour about spending the night smelling pink fiber glass insulation, chasing his eggs around his plate with his fork. "And no. Not any more than yesterday." He speared the salty eggs and stuck them in his mouth. "You'll be the _first_ person to know. You'll know before Sam."

Dean watched him warily over the table, upturned collar of his coat hiding the red and purple bruise on his neck.

"Swear on the Necronomicon?"

"That's not even a real book!" Chris protested, and looked helplessly to Sam for aid.

"Before me? Why him before me? I'm your _brethren_ ," Sam said, casually accusing, taking a sip of his own drink as if he were utterly disinterested in the answer.

Chris held his hands up in defense, fork between his fingers, pleading innocent.

"He obviously cares more than either of us."

"I thought this was a big deal for you," Sam set his drink down, looking more involved this time, and less like he was just torturing Chris for the sake of it. "Don't you want to go?"

"I have to go. Who wants to go?" Chris shrugged, slicing off a bite of waffle with the side of his fork. "It's work. It's dangerous. It's not my kind of thing."

"So...why'd you do this at all? Take over a human body like this, if you didn't want to?" Sam asked, somehow looking for some insight into his own forgotten actions.

Dean looked up from the newspaper, interested now, too, and Chris looked cautiously from one to the other, as if expecting some verbal barb. For once, although all eyes were on him, neither Winchester seemed hostile. He scratched his clean shaven cheek, gaze wandering towards the window.

"We have a lot invested in this..." He met Sam's eyes, then, and he held his gaze as if searching within him for understanding, and his voice was more sure. " _You_ have a lot invested in this. I'm not sure what you think you're working for. It's not your own best interest. Somewhere, you know that."

"Not everything has to be done for our own sake. There are people I owe this to," Sam said simply, and calm. This time he didn't rise to Chris in anger, but spoke with simple acceptance. "You really don't think you owe something to the family you took so much from?"

Dean glanced at Sam, wonderingly. He had never thought about it in those terms, what the same understanding he'd reached of how Sam had undone his family meant to Sam.

Chris seemed to think about it, forking his bite of waffle into his mouth. 

"No. I don't." He considered Dean, with no private animosity, his expression slowly darkening, and when he spoke his words burned with an old anger. "Look at their history, tribes killing tribes over millions of years, fighting for land to live on, animals to hunt. They're no different from us. They don't have Any. More. Right. to live." He pointed his fork at Dean, jabbing the air in punctuation, but now he was looking at Sam. His voice took on an adamant passion it seldom held, energy firming his shoulders and his jaw. "They have every right to fight us. They have the _right_ to win. But if they can't...that's what their Darwin called 'survival of the fittest.' That's no concern of ours." He blinked a few times, and then looked tired, and the anger faded from him. Even that much left him spent, and his attention drifted down to the food on his plate. "It doesn't matter, anyway," he dismissed. "Try and make it up all you want."

"That doesn't make any sense. Why do you need to _take_ from them at all? What is it that you want? Warring tribes at least wanted land, or resources...What does a demon want from a human?" Sam took a bite of his food, asking his questions honestly and without aggression, for once, genuinely wanting to know these things.

Clearly, once, he had wanted this too.

A frown knit Chris's brow, and he reached up to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind his ear.

"I want to work in materials management and ship supplies from distributors to consumers. And one of those foot massage tubs with the little jets of water. My grandfather never let me use his." He drank from his coffee and met eyes with Dean, again, the older Winchester watching him without trust from across the table, silent and waiting for an angle. Chris smiled at him, apologetically, and let his gaze drift to Sam, and his voice was hollow and his eyes, so often wide and frightened, betrayed only a decrepit exhaustion. "You have no soul. When it ends for you, it will end forever. You'll go out like a candle, and I will, too. But that man next to you...? He'll go on, and on, and on. If you're very lucky, he'll remember you, even when the universe forgets." 

Sam's motions stopped.

There wasn't really anything else for him to do. What did you say when someone told you that you had no soul? It wasn't even something Sam had thought about. Winchesters weren't really religious. But then again they weren't talking about _god_ , or a god, or whatever. They were talking about the soul, and in his time, Sam had seen plenty of souls. Souls that wander the earth, angry and confused, unable to move on to whatever it was out there. The moving on wasn't the point. The point was that even as they ate, Jessica's soul was watching him, standing near him with her blonde hair hanging around her shoulders, as ephemeral as the waiter with the pancakes was not. Humans had souls. They died, but that wasn't the end, not for them. They moved on. Where they moved on to was irrelevant. They didn't end, and that was the point.

Chris and Sam? They would end.

Sam's eyes flickered down to the table.

"...that's what we want? That's why I did this? So I could..." he didn't know how to end that thought.

Dean's hand sought Sam's out beneath the table, found it there and grasped it, Sam's skin warm beneath his palm. He was ready to call Chris a liar, but the words stuck in his throat. The demon looked nothing like Dean had ever seen him, no fresh faced twenty-something always tripping and landing with his foot in his mouth, but a thing that had dragged itself on beyond hope, and Dean felt a fear he couldn't voice.

"You're on the wrong side, Samuel." Chris's hunger distracted him and he dug into his waffle, again. It was no revelation, just inevitability.

Sam felt the strength of his brother's hand over his. A new line of connection, and at the same time as old as Sam's crib and Dean laying in it, letting Sammy grip his fingers. They had to find new ways to connect now, and the hand under the table was something simple and physical and rough. Sam curled his hand into Dean's, holding on to him. He felt warmth pool in his belly. Dean wasn't leaving him, Dean wasn't forgetting him.

Chris's words were meant to get a rise out of him -- again. They were meant to anger him and force his hand. But instead Sam just felt assured, if not a little bit sad.

"At least," he said, lowering his fork with his free hand. "At least I have someone who will remember me." Dean knew what he was. Dean knew what he'd done. Dean didn't hold it over Sam that Sam was something evil, once, or that he'd killed his little brother and his mother. Dean forgave him. Dean still loved him, despite all of that. Not because he was living in his little brother's body, but because of him, whoever he was, whatever name he'd once had. And Dean would remember him.

Sam wasn't about to betray that, even for the immortality promised him by a soul.

Chris laughed, genuinely amused with his answer, fascinated by Sam's stubborn determination he couldn't begin to understand.

"You are really, _really_ weird," he confirmed. "I'd rather live."

Dean couldn't say anything. He couldn't be sure. The possibility was there that Chris was playing them from beginning to end. The idea of a demon as something essentially different from a human was a concept he'd grown up with from his early childhood. But if the difference really boiled down to a matter of permanence, he had no doubt where he stood. He couldn't imagine a universe where Sam didn't exist.

Sam wanted to curl up somewhere with Dean, not to break down or because the world was too much, like usual it seemed, these days, but just to be there. He would feel warm, and he would show his appreciation to the one person who knew exactly what he was and would still love and remember him, even when it was all over.

Then he realized that they were in a restaurant where no one knew who they were, except Chris, and they'd already made out in front of him. The strangers utterly disregarded his presence. Who cared if he was there?

Sam lay his head on Dean's shoulder and shut his eyes, their hands still joined. Under his ear he could hear the thump of Dean's blood pulsing through him. 

Dean tensed in surprise as Sam unexpectedly moved into his space, but as the same realization came to him, he relaxed, and turned his head to press his lips against Sam's shaggy hair.

Chris looked at the two of them, over his plate of four dollar food, and didn't completely understand.

\----

While they were at Joshua’s, Sam stayed in the stacks of books, attempting organization after his frustration reached a certain level. He got what he could while he could, but soon enough it was time to move on, already having drawn on too much hospitality from their host and his wife. They hit the road and traveled east, because it seemed like a fine enough direction.

Dean wouldn’t let them take a vacation waiting for a sign. So, they hunted. Chris was an asset to their work, up until it came to making the kill. His fingers read histories like an open book, unraveling stories it would take them days and work to research. A doorknob, a torn scrap of backpack, or a floorboard held images of the past, and snatches of conversation.

“Almost as good as havin’ a chick flash her boobs,” Dean congratulated him, when he left Chris to stammer and apologize at a security guard while he snuck into a morgue to check out a cadaver.

It was actual confrontations with the supernatural that had the demon screaming and scrambling. Their first hunt Dean and Sam forgot to mention Chris was the bait, and the demon bolted and twisted his ankle in a root, faced with a brutish, knobby skinned troll. The second he refused to participate in, waiting in the Mazda, but the spirit sought him out, regardless, seeking to feed on his awakened, preternatural energy, and he swore vehemently up and down he’d be staying clear of whatever case Dean dug up next, and slept curled up in a nervous ball.

Sam used the hunts to play with the various symbols he’d jotted down on the legal pad. Most of the time nothing happened – not because the symbols were impotent, but because it was a matter of figuring out which ones related to which spirits, or beasts. It was like playing a nearly impossible matching game.

He made a few attempts to get into Chris’s head, like Dean suggested, but they pretty much all ended in failure. Most of the time nothing happened at all. Sometimes he’d get a feeling, an _idea_ that was Chris, but little else. Sam had the powers to do all these great things, but no control over them. If he would let himself remember who he was, he knew he’d remember control -- perfect control, but it wasn’t worth it. As it was, though, it was like trying to find his way in the dark.

The one time he stumbled on the light switch, the one time Chris’s mind opened up before him, glimmering flickers of consciousness on the surface of Chris’s thoughts spitting from a vast, stagnant abyss beyond -- and Sam found himself stuck and sinking like a fly in molasses while a noise built like a dull roar -- the demon’s mind closed off suddenly, a blank space as if no mind was there, and a black voice with a familiar tone skittering over its surface scratched against Sam’s mind.

_What are you even trying to do?_

Sam blinked. He’d heard the voice. Loud and clear in his head, the same as he’d heard Dean’s, before the tattoo had silenced him. He had no idea how to reply with his thoughts, so he replied aloud.

“…to read your mind?”

Dean glanced at Sam where he sat next to him on the motel bed, only now aware of the situation, prime time television droning from the cheap, old set. Chris turned to him a minute later, when the program went to commercial.

“You gotta do a lot better than that. You couldn’t even break into a human.” He scratched his cheek, looking concerned, and his mind emerged at the peripheral of Sam’s senses, again, conspicuous only compared to its absence.

“Yeah well…” Sam shrugged slightly. “It was worth a shot…” He sighed, leaning back against the headboard of he and Dean’s bed. It was irritating…Having an arsenal all his own and no idea how to make any of it function.

“The others won’t find it very funny,” Chris warned. He sounded meek, for all that he was correcting Sam, offering the knowledge like a dog cautiously wagging its tail hoping for a biscuit. “We’re not like humans. It’s normal for us. It’s the way we speak. We’ve all learned how to defend our secrets.” 

“They’ll know that I don’t remember though, won’t they? I _can’t_ defend my secrets, and you already know that,” Sam sighed, looking over at Chris.

Dean felt at a loss in conversations like this, where Sam and Chris discussed things he would never experience, but he listened and learned. He wanted to know these things about his brother, even the things of a sinister nature.

“You shouldn’t have a problem,” Chris assured him. “Breaking into somebody else’s mind is a lot different than small talk. If you’ve got the power to do that, nobody’s gonna risk poking around in your brain.”

Sam ran a hand over his face, making a disgruntled noise. He shifted closer to Dean, mumbling for his brother’s ears alone.

“I liked it better when things were simple.”

“Yeah,” Dean confided lowly, his eyes on the TV screen but his expression grave. “I did, too.” His eyes glanced Sam’s way, reservations and apprehensions silent there.

Chris shifted back against the pillows, finding his place in the seconds he’d missed of police officers questioning a trembling rape victim.

Sam glanced over at Dean, meeting his brother’s eyes. He saw the reservations there, and his stomach jumped nervously. He lifted a hand, fingers skirting over the older man’s jaw.

“Still…some things got better since then, though…” He tried for a hopeful smile.

Dean smirked, warmth seeping through his misgivings, and he turned his head slightly to nip at Sam’s fingers.

Finger pads played over teeth and lips, gentle and trusting, and without much motion or touch, guided Dean’s head towards Sam’s and guided their mouths together.

There were hard times to come, hard decisions to make and they both knew it. There was little comfort to be taken in the face of it all. Little comfort but this.

Dean was climbing on top of his brother’s body when Chris interrupted with, “Hey.”

“ _What?_ ” one of them said, but it was hard to tell who.

Sam’s arms were already twisting around Dean’s body as Dean straddled him, and their lips were busy together.

“ _Sam_.” Chris spoke a little louder, brow flinching irritably as the Winchesters ignored him. “You don’t feel that?”

“Feel what?” Sam drew his head back a bit, one hand against the Dean’s cheek, holding him there, a few inches from him. He dragged his thumb back and forth over his brother’s cheekbone lovingly, even as he looked over at Chris with a questioning expression.

“Focus, man. It’s _now_. I can feel somebody calling us.”

Sam blinked and looked around the room, as if expecting to see something there. He combed fingers through his brother’s hair, and smiled just slightly. Yeah, okay…Maybe he was paying more attention to Dean than he was anything else.

He shut his eyes and tried to feel out for something. He didn’t feel anything. Everything felt normal, except for his eyes, which hurt cause he was shutting them so tightly in an attempt to concentrate. He tried all the visualizations the old books recommended -- white light, diffusing, tree roots, tails, all that meditation stuff, but that backs of his eyelids were still black and white noise still sounded like white noise.

He squirmed slightly. He felt…a little bit nauseous. A little like ants were crawling up and down his legs and he needed to go for a run or something. That was the best he had.

“…I don’t feel much, just--…Well, I guess we go, then. Where? Where are they calling us to?” Sam asked, opening his eyes and looking back over at Chris again.

“It’s not Google Earth. It’s…that way.” Chris pointed between the television cabinet and the window. “It’s flat country. Miles of flat country. It’s…You know, I don’t know. It’s a feeling.”

“So we drive?” Dean grunted, trying to untangle his attention from Sam and Sam’s body, pulling away from the hand against his cheek and sitting back on Sam’s thighs.

“Until we find them.”

Sam’s hand fell to rest against the center of Dean’s stomach, over his navel and the Khamsa beneath his shirt. His fingers curled just a little. They were putting a lot of faith in that symbol.

“…alright, then. We should move,” Sam said.

They packed up the few belongings they owned between them, shouldered their bags, and headed out into the parking lot, the night air cool on their skin, crickets chirping in the grass at the edge of the motel lights. They cut three insignificant figures under the million pinpricks of light stretching from horizon to horizon; three tired men setting out on the road, wanting for the beds at their backs.

They slung the bags into the trunk of the Mazda and Sam let out a breath when he slammed it shut. He leaned his hands on the lid and looked over at his brother, Chris already in the car.

“…Dean. You know Dad can’t be a part of this,” he said with some trepidation. If there was ever a time that they needed their father it was now, but it was all too delicate, like the human flesh, human minds waiting to be torn asunder. Only Dean had any kind of protection.

Dean turned his face away, following Sam’s train of thought until he understood. He scuffed the asphalt with his boot. Dean wouldn’t trust John to stay out of it, even if he explained it in plain terms. 

“Last few times I talked to him, I got the feelin’ he was waitin’ for a reason to pluck me outta this.”

“I understand why…” Sam turned his face away for a moment, looking out at the highway. He pushed himself off the trunk, straightening to stand. The strong Colorado wind tugged his hair forward, and when he turned to look at Dean again it blew around his face. “If you wanted to…I’d understand if you didn’t come. I know you’ll come; I know you don’t like me saying this…But I have to say it. I gotta know that I gave you the chance to back out.” He swallowed dryly. “I don’t want you to die because of me, Dean.”

“I get that.” A wince buried itself in Dean’s brow. He’d seen the toll Jessica’s death took on his brother. He didn’t want to be the cause of that same pain. He dropped his eyes, weighed the risk of hurting Sam so deep against the risk of letting him go it alone; weighed it one more time because Sam needed him sure. He lifted his gaze, and he grinned, lopsided and a little sad. “You’re my boy, Sammy. You’re not doin’ this alone.”

Sam smiled, sort of sad, sort of joyful, taking so much from those words he barely knew what to do with it all. He took the few steps between him and his brother, and reached up, cupping Dean’s jaw. He kissed him, placing his other hand on Dean’s waist.

“I love you more than anything else in the world,” he said brazenly, with that same rough tone he’d had in their bed, back in Nevada. Sam did everything without the brakes on. He loved like a fire burning out. And at that moment, it was all Dean’s and no one else’s. 

Dean basked in those words, in that attention, in the heat of Sam’s body standing close, firm hands holding him steady. That beast inside him that fed on isolation finally starved in the depths of him, unmourned.

“…I’ll take the first shift,” Sam said quietly as he straightened, his hands dropping slowly to Dean’s taking the keys out from his fingers. He tossed them in the air and caught them, giving a small smile before walking around to the driver’s side of the Mazda.

Dean climbed into the passenger’s side seat as the door unlocked, stretching out. Dean slipped on his sunglasses, tinting the dark night a shade blacker to make sleep easier. He flipped open his cell phone and thumbed down to John’s number, hit dial and held the phone up to his ear.

His father picked up after a couple of rings.

“Dean? What’s happened?” John’s voice was antsy, as it had been in the last couple of weeks. He’d called pretty often, since they’d left Joshua’s.

“We’ve got a lead,” Dean admitted. “We’re headin’ outta Colorado.”

“Where?” John’s voice was gruff. He’d been asking after their location for awhile now, wanting to get back to his children. Whether that was Dean or the two of them was undetermined at this point, even to his own mind. “We have to meet up, Dean.”

“No. We can’t.” The Mazda rumbled to life. “And you can’t come lookin’ for us.” Dean spoke steady and certain. “We need radio silence for this one, Dad. You won’t hear from us for awhile.”

Dean heard John begin to argue, but he pressed the power button until the phone went dark, then snapped it shut.

John didn’t miss the irony, dialing back again and again, only to get the voicemail.


	21. Chapter 21

They were about ten miles south of the border, checked into a half way decent motel. The air was already getting clearer -- less heat, less humidity. The Mazda ran, but the A/C was only so-so, which made for a kinda crappy road trip. All three of the men were relieved to get into the room and crash for a night.

The next morning, however, they had to start making some calls, before heading over to the border inspection.

"We gotta get rid of all the guns," Sam said.

"There's a _brilliant_ plan, Sam," Dean concurred, skepticism so thick it was palpable. "It's not like we're goin' into a camp full of homicidals, or anything."

"Well I wasn't suggesting it just because I think it'd be _funny_. We're going into Canada." Sam leaned back against a wall outside, looking over at the Mazda.

Dean approached this information warily.

"...so?"

"...so the border patrolmen are gonna _notice_ the trunk full of guns when we cross over," Sam said. There was silence. Sam continued. "There are gun laws in Canada. You're not allowed to have any without all kinds of paperwork. They won't let us enter the country with the car like that."

Dean glared threateningly at Chris, like the demon would come out and tell him this _wasn't_ an absolutely necessary direction. Chris only shrugged, cringing back a little. Dean turned the glare back on Sam.

"So...why do we gotta enter this 'Canada' of yours _legally_?"

"...you wanna _hop the border_ into Canada?" Sam stared at Dean incredulously. "Well...for starters, getting the car in illegally would be...pretty tricky. Secondly, these aren't boogiemen in the night. If they wanted to, all they'd have to do is turn us into the police and we'd be behind bars and they'd be free to go and do what they want." It wasn't like dealing with a ghost or monster. These were people. Citizens.

"How do you expect me to defend myself, Sam?" Canada was clearly a trap. The demons were leading them to Canada to trap him without his guns. Even though they didn't know he was coming.

"Knives?" Sam shrugged. "I'm just saying, man...We _can't_ take guns with us. I'm not just saying it to be difficult. Believe me, I'd really like a good pistol with me.”

Dean's expression wilted sourly and he kicked at an empty Sprite bottle on the ground.

"What kind of pansy-ass country _is_ Canada?"

"One with a lot less crime and gun-related deaths, Dean." Sam pushed himself off the wall, walking off the curb and down to help his brother with the trunk.

Dean looked in real, physical pain taking the guns out one at a time, inspecting them for safety, and then tucking them away in the weapons duffle. If felt like he was stripping himself nude. More naked than nude. Like someone was peeling off the whole top layer of his skin before he walked into a cage of hungry tigers.

Sport rifles could make it across the Canadian border, but the Winchesters didn't have anything like that. Their shotguns were sawed off.

They could keep their knives, though they had to get rid of some of the more wicked ones, and they hid a bunch on their person, because even if they were legal, having a large collection of knives would still be looked on as odd, and they really needed to avoid suspicion.

The crossbow and the stick with a nail in it also had to go.

"They better be here when we get back," Dean groused, when they hid the duffle in the woods a couple hundred feet from a prominent mile marker. It was a futile threat to nobody, but those guns had seen Dean through a lot of fights, and he knew every millimeter of every one of them, how they weighed in his hand, and just how much he needed to lead with them.

There wasn't anything to be done about it. They had to take what they could get into the country, and even then crossing the border was touch and go. The Winchesters were tense, although Sam handled most of the talking, and after a rather long interrogation about the knives, they managed to drive through on to Canadian soil.

\----

The farmland went on for miles, as they drove into land pocked with hundreds of small lakes. The roads crisscrossing the country were long and straight, taking them past farmsteads isolated by endless stretches of produce. Sometimes the farmers left thin lines of trees alongside the road, or patches of trees around a small body of water or a farmstead, and it was possible the country had been wooded, once, but now it was completely tamed.

"They're close," Chris told them, on one of those endless roads, under the moonlight, the urge that guided him stirring anticipation to nausea in his stomach. "I feel like I can almost hear them."

Sam sat forward in his seat, looking around the mostly featureless landscape. 

"Do you know how many there are?"

"No," Chris apologized, concentrating but gleaning no further information. "I'd have to be telepathic like you."

"Like me?" Sam's brow furrowed in curiosity. He turned, looking over the seat to the demon in the back. "What do you mean?"

"Like I said, we can all speak mind to mind. That's normal. But most of us can't do it all that far." Chris looked for a better illustration. "It's like having...better than twenty-twenty vision. Most people don't even have twenty-twenty vision. I'd practically have to be in the room with them to pick out anybody in particular."

"And I could?" Sam looked interested. He'd always just assumed that he was the same as all the rest.

"Sure. I mean, probably." Chris shrugged. It wasn't his forte at all, and he only knew what others had told him. "You looked into my head, and not a lot of guys can do that."

"Huh," was all Sam said, turning to face forward again. He didn't know that they could do different things. It was a shame he had no ability to control or exercise his powers.

"So, unless Sam whips up some psychic-fu, we're not gonna know what we're up against until we walk in there?" Dean frowned. It wasn't his favorite forecast.

"Pretty much." Chris deflated a little under his own uselessness. "Sorry." 

"You're doing what you can," Sam shrugged, unusually forgiving of the other demon. "Thoughts?" he asked, looking over at his brother.

"If these guys can all read minds, they're gonna know you two are comin' before we get there." Dean glanced away from the window to meet Sam's gaze.

Sam paused, thinking this over.

"...but not you." Sam's eyes widened as he latched on to the same train of thought that Dean was riding. "No. No, Dean. You can't just...go in there alone."

"I don't have wacky superpowers, but I'm still a pro, Sam." Dean didn't get what the big deal was. He was no more likely to get caught than usual. "We do this kind of stuff all the time."

"This isn't the usual stuff," Sam said, unsure. "You can't just...shoot these people, if it goes south."

"I can scream like a girl," Dean offered casually. "Come on, Sammy, that's a win/win situation for you."

Sam made a face.

"I really don't like this plan, Dean..." But he also wasn't seeing any alternatives. That much was clear in his voice.

"They wouldn't be expecting anybody to sneak up that they couldn't hear." Chris looked down at himself and straightened his polo shirt out on his shoulders, conscious that he'd be making some first impressions, soon. Maybe sooner than they wanted. "Even if they catch him, they'll wanna play with him for awhile -- find out what he knows."

"That's not encouraging," Sam ground out, his worry only increasing.

"It's better than being dead." Chris picked at a straying thread in the car seat. "It might even win us some respect -- being ‘clever’."

Sam looked over at his brother. He'd feel a little better if he could at least have some kind of communication with him, so if Dean got snatched, Sam'd know right away. 

"...how long do you think you'll need?"

"Depends on how much walkin' I gotta do." The whole country seemed to be made of mostly-empty space. "It's gotta be a farm, that's the only thing out here. I'd say gimmie an hour."

Sam grimaced again. He was hoping for more like 'ten minutes'.

"Two fourteen, I'm getting out of this car and going to find you," the younger Winchester consented.

Dean checked his watch, and then pulled the handle of the passenger side door, letting it swing open into the Canadian night.

"Two fourteen. You don't get to worry until then." He flashed Sam a grin, unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing out onto the shoulder.

"Right," Sam said with a weak smile, painfully aware of the potential danger his brother was walking into. "No worrying." Yeah, that was a lie.

Dean nodded, a wink, and he pushed off, letting the door slam the door shut. He headed up the road, breaking into a jog, the Mazda's headlights illuminating the backs of his legs, his body casting a long shadow on the road ahead until the shadow and then Dean faded into the darkness.

Sam watched his brother's form until it was gone and everything was still except for the dust motes dancing in front of the headlights.

He was used to waiting.

He remembered being fourteen and home alone, trying to read one of the books he'd borrowed from the library. His father had told him he couldn't go to school anymore -- "too old to need a babysitter" -- so he'd started checking out the books that would be in the curriculum of his peers, and he did his best to tutor himself. It wasn't easy on some nights, when Dad and Dean were gone on some hunt that sounded particularly dangerous, a hunt they didn’t take him on, and Sam couldn't concentrate on his book for the worry in his head. He remembered standing by the kitchen window and looking out at the featureless black of night and waiting.

He was used to it, at this point in his life. He knew how to curl a knee to his chest and stare out a window, almost unblinking, and just wait.

Chris wasn't as good at waiting, listening to the clunker's engine idling and the radio playing, almost inaudible. He slunk down further and further in his seat, until his knees were braced on the seat ahead of him, and stared at the headrest dimly backlit by the headlights ahead. Before three minutes had passed, he had opened his mouth.

"I figured you two would at least kiss goodbye."

"That's not how we work," Sam said absently, his eyes tracing the lines of the fence that ran down the side of the road.

Chris didn't want to admit he was about as close to understanding how the Winchester brothers worked as the day he met them. He exhaled a weary sigh, sick of being stuck in the Mazda, thinking about getting out and stretching his legs.

"Shouldn't you turn the car off?"

Sam glanced over at the keys. The headlights were a give-away in the darkness, but he needed to see if Dean came running back up that road, fifteen demons in tow. 

"No...I need to be able to see."

Chris fiddled with the edges of his shirt, scratched his scalp, and wished he'd eaten more at the gas station pit stop where they bought the snack food and power bars that constituted dinner. He could still taste strawberry and grape Nerds on the back of his tongue.

"What makes _him_ worth throwing away a thousand years...?" he asked quietly, and curious.

Sam glanced back at the other demon, looking a little confused by the question, by the fact that Chris would be interested. He looked back out at the road and thought it over.

"...he raised me. He's...I dunno. He's my only real parent, only family, partner...You don't just throw that away. I owe him. I took his mother away from him, and in return he's given me unconditional acceptance. People like that don't come up every thousand years. You have to take them when you find them."

"He doesn't seem that different from the rest of them." Chris wasn't trying to talk Sam out of loving Dean, the fascination in his voice was different than that. "How do you know he doesn't love you because you're the only person around?"

"That's exactly why he loves me," Sam responded, surprise in his voice, as if he didn't get why Chris didn't understand that. "Of course that's why he loves me. It's why I love him. We're the only people that can survive each other." 

It was like qualifying for something. The sheer fact that they could be around one another at all, this long, a lifetime, it made it automatically special. No one else had stuck by Sam that long. Sam was the only person who really _got_ Dean. They loved each other because they were the only people who had managed to hold on this long.

Chris obviously saw it as something bad, but Sam thought it was a testament to himself and his brother.

Chris frowned, the answer not the one he was expecting. It seemed like there should be something else, some profound revelation that would explain to him why Sam would give up immortality for a smart-mouthed, trigger happy twenty-something of a human.

"Since I was born in this body, it seems like I've felt more...I know I've felt more. Everything before was like...black noise. I hated everything. I was always afraid. I remember...pleasure, but I wasn't _happy_. I've been happy here. But you...it seems like you're talking about something different. You have to be,” Chris said finally, after a moment.

Sam tried to think about it, tried to reason out, tried to figure out his own reasons, already having made up his mind but realizing he'd never really thought about it before.

"I'm not...It's not always _pleasing_. That's not what it's about. It's about...permanence." Sam looked back at Chris, half turning in his seat to actually talk to him, and not out the windshield. "The thing you're looking for. If he could, he'd share his soul with me. I'm not always happy with him...most the time, in fact, I'm...Things suck, most of the time. But he puts up with it sucking. He could leave, if he wanted to. He could have left at any time, had a better life, but he stayed, for me. He just ran off into a field at night, to what he knows is a pack of demons who could kill him and really...This isn't his fight. I'm the one depending on this. He could go anywhere and be happy and free of all this. He's chained to it, though, because of me. It's...it's the very measure of selflessness. You may win. You may get what you want, and I may fade out and cease to be, but even if you live forever, you'll never have what I have now."

Chris's frown deepened.

"That's not very optimistic. Still...I can't see what it's worth, to have all that, if you can't keep it. It doesn't sound like permanence at all. Aren't you afraid? ...of disappearing, I mean, even if he does remember you."

Chris didn't want to be a memory. Remembering himself had unstopped all the mortal fear inside him, and it welled up and spilled over, warning him that all his efforts might never be enough. That fear had always been there, uneasy beneath the surface, even when he was a child, playing at the local Tot Lot, even when he was in high school, stammering to ask Natalie Weiss on a date. That fear was inescapable.

"Of course I'm afraid,” Sam responded. “I've been afraid all my life. Of the thing under the bed, of the dark, of my father and brother coming home half dead or...just not coming home at all. I'm afraid of dying. I'm afraid of...not dying. I've always been afraid. I'm used to that. A lot of people have lived and died for me, and I'm still scared. Forever doesn't have a lot of promise if it means things always being like this." He looked to the side, unable to place his finger on it.

He remembered lying in that alley in Maine, staring up at the stars and giving up on everything he'd ever wanted for himself. Now it didn't bother him so much, all those dreams dead and gone. He remembered the human pain of relishing something and still having to let it go. But now was just a different time, and he had utterly given up on his own life. It wasn't about him, not anymore.

Chris's frown tugged up in an amused smile, gaze unfocused, wondering if he could manage another nap on the car's uncomfortable cloth seats.

"Do you think you're going to kill us all?"

"I think that we're abominations, you and I. I think that one way or the other, this world will find its way to reject us, given time. I can hope for that, at least." Sam rested his arm on the median of the car's front seat.

Chris was silent in the backseat for a while. As long as he could be silent in the stillness. Not much over a minute. He pushed himself up on the seat, shifting a little to try and sit comfortable.

"...I'm gonna stretch my legs. I can't feel them anymore."

"...stay by the car," Sam said, a hint of warning in his tone. He knew that even if Chris bolted, he'd catch up to him easily. Still. He didn't _want_ to sprint through the darkness in the middle of nowhere Canada.

"And I was going to go eat babies," Chris complained, rolling his eyes. But when he got out, he stayed near the car.

After that, Sam almost wished that the conversation, no matter how bleak, had continued. It had distracted him somewhat, from staring at the clock. After that his eyes were fixed either on Chris's form, the road in front of the car, or the digital display of the clock, ticking away the minutes impossibly slow.

\----

Dean crept low to the ground through the detritus beneath the thin grove of tall, old trees, guided by the dim light shining from two side-by-side front windows of the white, two story farmhouse. He saw no sentries, but Chris had assured him on that, and it didn’t seem suspicious. A disarray of cars spread out over the yard between the house and a massive, blue barn with a down curved white roof, up next to each other at odd angles, blocking one another in -- new and old cars, Fords, Kia, and Cadillacs. Dean counted fourteen, moonlight gleaming dully from their hoods. He snuck closer to the house, breaking from the treeline to lope through the shadows, pressing himself against the foundation beneath the wide front porch.

It had been a long jog through the wheat fields, heading towards the dark shadows of trees and silos against the wide night sky that demarcated a farmstead, offering privacy from travelers on the road and a security against endless, unbroken miles of grain a person could get lost in. Dean’s skin was damp with perspiration, cooling chill in the night air.

He slunk below the banister, rounding the railed stairs silently and putting his weight down slowly on each wooden step, pressing out only one, slight creak on the third. He scanned the yard from the top step, and then snuck silent towards the window flickering with blue lights….

\----

The Mazda's headlights and the rumble of the idling engine led Dean back through the field and up the embankment to the battered old car. His night vision shot, he could barely make out Sam and Chris, waiting inside. He pressed the backlight and checked his watch (two o'seven) and opened the passenger's side door, climbing back into the Mazda and swinging it shut behind him, muting the chirps and clicks of the crickets outside.

Sam let out a breath of relief. He looked over to his brother curiously.

"Where to?" He'd get the scoop later, when they were safe.

"Guess we're gonna have to drive back to Kindersley." Dean had been in the middle of a lot of nowheres, but this was one of the widest. He put the seat back the couple of inches it went and clapped his fingers against his palm. "Chop chop, Jeeves."

Kindersley was a good long drive, and damn but Sam had questions. Still, he waited until they were checked into a motel, Chris sent in to make himself comfortable, before shutting the door and turning to Dean. They were standing in the yellow-lit alcove hallway outside the rooms, and Sam leaned back against the motel door.

"What'd you see?"

Dean pushed his hands into his pockets, glancing over his shoulder towards the stairwell, habitual wariness.

"Big farm. Lotta space. I counted maybe fourteen cars parked around."

"So there's at least that many...Did you get any closer?"

Dean nodded, shifting his weight off his right foot, reaching up to wipe his nose with the side of his hand and sniffing back a little mucus. He shrugged, there wasn't a whole lot to say.

"Saw a lotta silos, couple barns. Went up, checked out the house. Two stories. Got up on the porch."

Sam felt like Dean was stringing him along or something.

"...and? What did you see?"

Dean let the pregnant pause draw on.

"...couple people on the sofa watchin' ‘Dragnet’ reruns," he finished, heavily. He screwed his face up and gave another, half-assed shrug. "Nobody's real excitin' at one in the morning." 

Sam sighed and rubbed his face.

"Great..." He hated how human these things were. It made it more difficult to distance himself from them. "So, what do we do? Do we just...walk on in there and say hi?" As far as he could tell, that was, in fact, the best of their options.

"Not like we're armed, Sam." There was no option of going in there and throwing down. Besides, it wasn't what they came so far for. “Even if we were…We’re not gonna make a big impression on fourteen of ‘em.”

"Yeah, but..." It was what they'd been expecting, roughly. What they'd been expecting to do, anyways. Still. The whole situation didn't exactly sit right.

"What?" Dean's expression was open to suggestions. "You want me to bake 'em a casserole?"

Sam smirked a little.

"We could bring some chips and dip."

"Couple six packs of beer, bottle of wine...who _wouldn’t_ trust us?" Dean plastered on a friendly grin that came off smarmy.

"Tomorrow morning?" Sam asked, more seriously. "Or is there a reason to wait longer?"

Dean's lips pressed to a grim line.

"Won't like it any more next week."

Sam nodded wordlessly. It was something that Sam would happily put off indefinitely, but they didn't have that luxury.

Dean searched Sam's face, his eyes, a penetrating and inscrutable expression that fell away as his gaze slid off to the side.

"Better get our beauty sleep and eat our wheaties." He glanced up, flashing Sam a smile.

They didn't sleep easy that night. There was no way they could.

\----

A long, yellow dirt driveway led from the road to the farm house, looped the farm house in a wide circle and led off towards the silos and barns, where it faded into sparse grass. Dean drove around to the side of the house to find space to park the Mazda. There was a man working on a broken down grain truck, some two hundred feet away, and too old to be a demon, and he showed no interest when the three car doors slammed closed.

Sam glanced over at the man, the movement distracting him. He was pretty high strung at the moment, his eyes dashing to any source of motion. The farmhouse looked innocuous enough, and Sam walked up the front steps to the porch, pausing in front of the screen door.

Chris dogged Sam's heels, apprehensive of straying too far behind the much more competent Winchester, but Dean lingered at the back, scanning the treeline between the house and the fields and keeping an eye on the farmer.

Sam wasn't entirely certain what the protocol for this was, but he knocked on the door and just waited for a reply.

It was a girl that opened it, tan skinned, long, unruly hair pulled up in a green clip, eating a ham sandwich, mustard and crumbs on her lips. She licked them clean and reached up to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, looking Sam over, head to foot -- it was a long way. She glanced at Chris, who greeted her with a tentative wave that failed to impress, and she looked back to Sam, clearly the one in charge. 

"Guess you two will want to see Pierce."

"Yeah, sure. Pierce," Sam said, tucking his hands into the front of his hoodie. He fingered the hilt of the knife there, and stepped over the threshold when the girl led them in, holding open the screen door for Chris, then Dean, to follow.

It was when she turned back halfway down the hallway -- did a double take -- that she saw Dean (Dean, checking out her curves), and she stopped, rigid, glaring as he stopped short, blinking at her confused and offering a grin that had _flirt_ written all over it.

His charm failed to impress.

"...what is he?" the girl asked, coldly.

"He's mine, keep moving," Sam said, his tone booking no argument. He looked down at the girl, gaze unwavering.

She hesitated, but finally she turned, walking straight through the house to open the door to the back porch.

"Pierce," she said, standing in the open door. "A couple new guys."

A silence, and she stepped aside, letting Sam, Dean and Chris onto the porch.

The man sitting in the white wicker chair at the end of the porch next two a tall glass of lemonade was no older than the other demons, not as well muscled as Sam, or Dean. He could've been any twenty-something in the Americas. His looks weren't striking. Like the others, there was little said _demon_ or _dangerous_ about him, only the calm and appraising look in his brown eyes.

Sam looked over at the other man, and shifted his weight a little.

"Sam," he introduced himself simply, then nodded to the other two with him. "Chris, Dean." There was no point in giving fake names, he was pretty sure of that.

The girl with the ham sandwich snuck one more suspicious look at Dean and walked back inside the house, tearing off a bite of pork and bread.

Dean watched her tail end saunter into the kitchen through the screen door. (She had a little weight on her. Something to hold on to. That was never a bad thing, in Dean's book.)

Pierce was watching Dean watch the young woman, a frown gathering in his brow.

"He's not one of us." It was a simple observation, but like the woman, he seemed mystified of Dean, of the void of psychic emanations where he stood, and like the woman, he seemed suspicious.

"He's with me," Sam said again, not liking the way their eyes wouldn't leave Dean. It made him twitchy, like someone was pointing a gun at his brother and he was doing nothing about it.

Dean reeled his attention back from the girl and back to Pierce. He wasn't completely sold on the whole 'piece of property' attitude.

"What did you do to him?" Pierce pressed, ignoring Dean and Chris, now.

"Do to him?" Sam's brow furrowed, but then he realized that Pierce was assuming Dean was his little pet or something, that Sam had protected, as opposed to a functioning adult. "None of your business." He wasn't going to give away any more secrets than necessary.

"I am lovin' it here already," Dean announced with a big fake smile. He looked around the porch, chose a rocking chair by the wary demon, walked two steps past Sam and dropped himself down in it. "So, you're Pierce. Take it you're in charge around here?"

The demon returned Dean's smile, authentically, amused and sly, and met Dean's eyes for the first time.

"That's right."

Chris stayed in his place, behind Sam. It was all as much as he expected, people more confidant than he was negotiating their places and making decisions.

Sam shifted his weight uneasily, wanting to move, to release that nervous energy, but he stayed where he was. He wanted to ask what they were going to do, but that would be too obvious, so he leaned back against the porch railing, disliking the look in Pierce's eyes. 

He disliked this entire situation, but that was really neither here nor there.

"I'm here for the orgies," Dean announced, offering Pierce his hand.

Pierce accepted Dean's firm handshake.

"Thursdays. We'd never get anything done, otherwise."

" _She's_ gonna be there, right?" Dean asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, glancing back towards the screen door. He cocked one brow at Pierce and grinned like a hopeful six year old.

"You'd have to ask her that." The demon glanced from Dean to Sam. He had assumed the taller Winchester was in charge. Dean had commandeered the conversation, but it was going nowhere important.

"And what do you do on days other than Thursday?" Sam asked, jumping on the obvious opening. He wasn't as good at staying emotionally unengaged as Dean (it was what made him much better at interviewing people than Dean, but also what made him shit at banter with evil entities), but he actually kept his tone pretty conversational.

"You don't know?" Pierce seized on that particular morsel of information, and Dean, to his chagrin, was forgotten.

Chris felt his heart leap up in his throat, but he took a step closer to Sam and leaned against the railing beside him, holding Pierce's gaze with the five ounces of backbone he had.

"He doesn't remember."

Pierce sat back in his chair, studying Chris for the first time. The blonde haired demon shifted uncomfortably against the rail under his scrutiny.

"And you brought him here?"

"He's close. He's waking up." Chris flinched as Pierce continued to search his eyes.

"...I guess the three of you could work on the farm." Pierce smiled at Sam, and now it was condescending.

Sam blanched internally at how none of this made any sense to him, that there was a knowledge between Pierce and Chris that he couldn't get at, somehow. It bothered him more-so that it was knowledge he _could_ have, if he wanted it enough. He was the type of person who sought out any information he could get at, any knowledge he could have, and his instincts told him to take it. He knew, however, intellectually, that the price of that knowledge was too high.

"...that's what we do? We work a farm?" Sam raised an eyebrow, returning the gaze without flinching. He might not be a powerful demon (yet) but there were things he could do with a machete that were a stretch of the imagination to conceive of.

"The wheat doesn't harvest itself." Pierce gestured broadly towards the golden fields visible through the tall trees shading the residential property.

"That guy out by the barn," Dean prompted. "He's too old to be one of you guys."

Pierce let his arms rest on the arm rests of the wicker chair.

"Most of the time, he doesn't even know we're here -- unless he thinks we’re the help."

Sam winced slightly, too empathetic for his own good.

"What's the point though?" he asked, finally. "Why harvest wheat at all?" What kind of demon masterminded a huge plot to get an army of fellow demons on to this plane all so that they could...harvest wheat? 

"...we need the money," Pierce pointed out fairly, a smirk creeping up at the corner of his lips. "To eat." He waved a dismissive hand. "It's not like we grow wheat all the time. But you're not going to eat our food when I can't use you." His eyes ran over the Winchesters' bodies. "Besides, you look like you're used to manual labor." 

Sam glanced over to his brother, expression a query. They could stay. They could...harvest wheat. Do whatever it was they were doing and try and find out what _else_ the demons were doing, because clearly they _had_ to be doing something else. Or they could leave. 

Sam got the impression that if they walked out the front door, no one would try and stop them. Not because anyone was afraid of them -- quite the opposite. They wouldn't be stopped because they just weren't considered a threat.

Dean shrugged. He'd done months of day labor, getting Sam better in South Dakota. Working a farm didn't sound so much tougher, even if he had skills better suited to killing every demon on the property in some kind of violent reckoning. Subterfuge wasn't Dean's strong point, but it'd be easy even for him if they were unsuspected and underestimated.

"...alright, then," Sam agreed, looking back to Pierce.

"...you said the three of us," Chris piped up.

Pierce picked up the lemonade on the table next to him and sipped from it leisurely.

"Someone has to make sure he stays out of the way."

Chris got that kicked puppy look, but it was nowhere as near convincing as the one Sam could whip out. _Manual_ and _labor_ were two words he didn't like to hear, and definitely not together.

Sam didn't frown, though his muscles twitched to try to. He knew it was him that needed to stay out of the way, not Dean.

In their book, Dean wasn't even a person. He was the same as that anonymous man out front. Not really worth even paying attention to. Sam himself was a liability. A necessary individual, but someone who needed to be kept an eye on until he accepted his potential.

It bothered Sam, who was sensitive to such things.

\----

Demons watched daytime TV. They drank. They pissed, and they fucked. (Some of them fucked on the couch at ten at night.) They played loud music. Most of them were basically Dean's kind of people.

Except they disappeared into the attic for long periods of the day, and one of the upstairs rooms was off limits to the Winchesters. 

Except Stephen, a Polak from Detroit, was puppeting the farm’s owners with his powers of coercion, and those humans had no idea their young daughter, fresh out of university, had had over nineteen of her cohorts from the black reaches of hell. 

Except they treated Dean as somehow inferior, somehow less, and when they laughed at his jokes, it was the laughter of a party entertained by the antics of a small, cute dog, and when he postured, and when he glared, they never believed they were in danger from him.

Sam found himself part of the group, but like a little kid who hadn't grown up yet. They treated him like an equal, like someone who's opinion counted, but who didn't have all the facts.

He worked with his brother and Chris during the day, but in the evenings he found himself more and more reticent to leave Dean. He remembered waking up one night to find two of the others near the pile of sheets where they slept, and they only left when Sam wrapped an arm around his brother and hissed at them to _back the fuck off_.

Chris admitted privately to Dean, loading a trailer beside him, that he was completely thrilled not to be the actual bottom of the totem pole while he had Dean to take it for him. Dean smacked him upside the back of his head.

"Who's the guy takin' it from the bottom of the totem pole?"

"...that's me," Chris whimpered, and found something to do on another part of the farm entirely.

The daytime put them all at ease. Sam always assumed that if anything happened, it'd be in the evening, when all the demons were congregated in one place, but that was arrogant of him.

The fields were wide, and while noise carried through the wheat, there was plenty of space to be used.

It was three of them -- two young men and the girl who'd originally greeted the Winchesters when they arrived, the farmer’s daughter -- who decided to take their break with Dean as entertainment. They were all congregated around one of the old sheds between the fields, where there was a big orange water cooler, good and grungy like the ones normally kept in stables. The water was warm and had bits of grass floating in it, but it was all they had. 

One of the young men leaned in and murmured something as Dean came by, and the other two laughed.

Dean ignored them. He had to ignore them, because he could take most of them one on one in a fist fight, but it wouldn't be one on one, and he could bet they wouldn't be fighting with their fists. It was just to the gas tank and back. One of the combines, a big cutting and threshing machine, was dead out in the field. Theoretically, it wasn't Dean’s most dangerous mission. But Sam wasn't in sight, and Chris wasn't either, so he kept his head up and tried to look untouchable.

It was the girl who walked up to him as he passed them. Her hand reached out and snagged the back of his shirt to halt his progress.

Dean stopped, expression darkening as he stared off at the gas tank, only five hundred feet away. He glanced back over his shoulder, met the girl's eyes. He didn't kowtow to anybody.

"You need somethin'?"

She maneuvered him around, looking over to the two young men, ignoring what Dean said. She pulled up his shirt, gesturing to his stomach.

"See?"

"That's nothing special," one of the men said, shrugging dismissively.

"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes. "Why don't any of you have a stomach like this?" She ran her hands over the muscle populating Dean's abdomen.

"That's disgusting, Bea," the second man said. "It's...pedophilia.”

"Bestiality," the first corrected.

"Probably both." Dean flashed a smile, the muscles of his stomach flinching under the young woman's touch. It'd been a long time since his skin had been touched by smooth hands, or small hands. He remembered what it was like to be touched by other women, other times, and this woman didn't repulse him (although he hated her the way he hated all company), but Sam got him somewhere a lot more visceral.

Her hand ran up under his shirt, to the arch of his ribcage, fingers tracing the bone.

"I bet he's way better in bed than you two..." Her hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, frizzy and curly and somewhat reminiscent of 1985. "Isn't that right?" She said the last bit to Dean, but it was said in the same tone that someone took with a baby or pet, where she didn't expect a response. "I bet I could just take him here, up against the shed." She licked her lips, giving Dean a shove back. She didn't have even half the muscle strength that he did, and she didn't use any powers, but it was only a step or two until his back met the sheet metal. 

"Ugh, I don't want to watch this," the second guy said, wandering away, back to the fields, presumably. The first just laughed good naturedly. 

"Darlin', that's real sweet of you." Dean let his eyes linger on her smooth thighs, her round hips, the flash of skin between her shorts and her t-shirt, her breasts, pushed up firm by what experience told him was an underwire bra. He shook his head and tsked, quirked a brow and met her eyes. "You’re not half bad. I just don't do pity fucks."

The telekinesis hit him like a car, arms thrust upwards and pinned to the metal and legs held down by the same power.

"Don't talk back," the man who was still there said, standing several feet away. The girl whirled on him.

"Hey!" she said, looking indignant, and for a moment it seemed like she'd actually be the one to give Dean reprieve, but the next thing she said pretty much dashed those hopes. "Go get your own."

"Hey, now," the young man held up his hands defensively. "C'mon, Beatrice. It’s not like that. You go right ahead."

She paused, then smiled a little.

"...I take it back. That's kinda sweet..." She didn't look sick, or twisted, or evil. She smiled like the other demon had just given her a flower, sweet and genuinely affectionate.

"Anything for you, babe," he said, and smiled back.

It was like watching teenagers, all mushy mushy and kissy kissy. People behaving like that made Dean kinda nauseous.

"Can I go, now? You two don't need me." He gave them a charming smile. "You can trade friendship rings and make out in the back of her dad's truck."

The girl moved over to Dean again, pulling his t-shirt up once more. She ran the flats of her hands over him, although her eyes remained on the other demon the whole time. She dug her nails in a little against his pectoral muscles, then scratched back down the length of his torso.

Dean debated the possibility of being raped by a woman. Could a person be raped by a woman? Could she rape him if he didn’t get it up? If he got it up, did that mean he was willing? …could you rape the willing? Dean had never been in a situation where those specific questions came up, and he stared up at the sky and tried his damndest not to pop a stiffy.

He missed Sam in his head. He _needed_ Sam in his head. There was a possibility somebody might use his entrails like party favors, and he couldn't do anything if they did. He wasn't scared, yet, but he _was_ helpless, and it brought back bad memories, things he'd rather repress (the memory of his father's face with a monster's eyes, being pinned and Sam yelling for him). He wasn't sure if the fact that it was more sexual than violent this time made it better or worse. He shivered as the girls fingers clawed across his abdomen.

Her hands moved to his pants, one undoing them, the other moving between his thighs and rubbing his crotch. It wasn't really romantic, or sexy. Dean meant as much as a dildo to her.

"You gotta be kiddin' m-- _Lady_ , just--..." He stared incredulously at the demon standing aside and observing, breathing a little harder, and how was he supposed to ignore this kind of thing? (His dick wasn’t programmed that way.) "You so lousy in bed _this_ is better?"

"God, you're noisy..." Beatrice said. She laughed and it sounded open and free, like she was so happy. She looked like any other twenty-something girl.

"Hey!" Sam's voice interrupted them. He was standing at the edge of the opening in the field, holding a large load of the wheat. He threw it to the ground, though. "Get away from him!"

Dean had been in a lot of mortifying situations in his life, most of them his fault, but getting saved from being raped, by a chick who was at _most_ a hundred fourty pounds, by his (admittedly butch) little brother brought the scale to new lows. He groaned; thumped his head against the weather stained wall of the shed. He didn't wake up, and his fly was still open. 

"Why?" She looked confused.

"What do you _mean_ why? Get off my brother!" Sam began to stalk towards her.

"Or what? You're impotent." She smiled a bit and looked down at Sam's crotch. " _Flaccid_."

The young man who'd been watching walked over and reached out for her arm.

"C'mon," he said, gently, dropping Dean from the telekinetic hold.

"Why?" She looked at him with something of a pout.

"Because we don't know who he is, yet...He could turn out tougher than you.” The smile he gave her was teasing, kind. “He'll remember. Just give him time." He looked over at Sam with such human, understanding eyes and Sam just wanted to punch that look off of his face. The girl pursed her lips and bit them, but finally nodded. 

"Alright, alright..." She walked with the other demon, and they strolled casually away from the two Winchester's.

"Dean..." Sam moved over to his brother quickly.

Dean stepped back, straightening up, holding his hands up defensively.

"I'm _fine_ , Sam." He watched the demons leave. There was no way he was getting hugged, or touched, or fretted over, or in any other way _further emasculated_ in front of any of Pierce's posse. He blew out hot air through grit teeth, dropped his gaze grudgingly and miserably, angry about the whole thing, and tugged the zipper of his pants up.

"Fuck..." Sam muttered, watching the two disappear into the field. There was no way he could leave Dean alone now. Not at all. Sam knew they wouldn't do anything to himself without Pierce's express say so, but when it came to Dean, none of them _cared_. The older Winchester was just a walking sack of meat to them.

"I'm good. I mean, a _woman_? Might as well just cut my dick off. But..." Dean buttoned his pants, and then tugged his shirt, clinging to his abs, down to his waist. He wanted to bust somebody's face. He couldn't. It grated.

Sam wanted to touch Dean, to reaffirm that he was nearby and not being eviscerated by demons or something, but he had the feeling if he did, Dean'd deck him. 

It was pretty clear that Dean was mad, not hurt. 

Dean paced the ground in a tight line, a lot of edgy energy, eyes flickering over the short grass for something, anything...nothing. Nothing that worked for him. He spun around and slammed his foot into the flimsy metal shed, metal warping under his boot, a deep dent. He glared down at it, shoulders rising and falling with deep, frustrated breaths...but he was calming down, a little more excess energy seeping away by the second.

"...I wanna _kill_ these guys, Sammy." His shoulders finally eased, and even the angry part of him admitted that the shed wasn't going to fight back. He was a stranger to having no course of action.

"I wouldn't stand in your way," Sam told him, though he knew that if Dean tried he'd end up pinned to a wall again. He tucked his hands into his pockets. "I wish I--..." he let out a puff of air, looking over at the wheat fields, face in an expression of concernation.

"Nothin' you could do." Dean didn't blame Sam for not being there. He wasn't a kid that needed sitting. Neither of them was used to the idea of him as helpless. "You showed up."

Dean turned away from the dented shed reluctantly. He felt like a tool.

"I could do the things that they do. I mean, I have the ability, right?" Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Don’t go there, Sam,” Dean warned.

"...I keep having dreams about it," Sam admitted, still looking away from Dean. His voice sounded oddly casual for the conversation. "Of this face, or...person, or whatever. I know that I'm...that it's trying to remember, make _me_ remember."

Dean had told him he'd help him come back from those dreams, but it wasn't possible now. He gave it up to come here and get molested by demons. Right now, he wasn't sure on the value of that trade.

He shoved his own hands in his pockets and glowered down at the dirt. He was feeling Sam's emo pretty hard. His tongue flickered over his dry lips. A second-thought look of consideration slowly crept across his features.

"...now that I'm all past the _mad_ , gettin' raped by a chick was kinda hot."

"Yeah?" Sam looked back over at his brother with a half smile. "Want I should leave you two alone next time?" 

"Eh." Dean hunched his shoulders up, let them fall. "Think you'd get teed off if I got a hard on for dumb and horny there?" He jerked his head off towards the direction the demons left in, smiled a little smug.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Depends. Are you getting hard because she's a girl or because she _molested_ you?"

Dean pursed his lips and furrowed his brow down real deep.

"...let's say both."

"Well, I can't do much about one of those things."

"Stay with me here, Sam." Dean waved the details away with a careless hand. "It's you. It's me. You'd be pissed."

"If you got inadvertently hard?" Sam gave Dean a quizzical look. "No. I mean...if you tried to _jump_ her, sure." Whatever Dean was getting _at_ , Sam just didn’t _get_.

"I hate you," Dean told him, point blank, annoyed. "Okay. I go back to the house. I get a couple beers. Talk her up. Put on some Pink Floyd. I screw her brains out. ... Are you pissed off yet? And _don't_ answer that with another question. I'm screwin' her brains out."

Sam stared at his brother blankly. Clearly, Dean was going _insane_. Maybe it was the whole being molested by a chick thing. Sam wasn't sure.

"...um. Yes?" Sam wasn't sure why they were talking about this. At all. "Okay. Sure. I'm pissed."

"But you still love me," Dean concluded, gesturing broadly.

"Yeah, but--...Dean, why are we walking through this hypothetical?"

Dean blew out a _pshaw_. 

"Because you're not gonna go all dark side and kill us all, doofus."

"...you have the weirdest way of proving a point." But Sam reached over and ran a hand messily through Dean's hair.

Dean ducked his head to the side, squinting one eye shut, and then his lips broke into a broad, dumb grin.

"Now, tell me how awesome I am."

"You sorta suck," Sam responded with a more muted but no less genuine smile, then pulled his brother in with the same hand. "S'alright though. I love you anyways." He kissed the corner of one of Dean's eyebrows, then ducked his head to press their mouths together.

Dean snuck his body up against Sam's long torso, slid a hand up around his back and got a fist of his sweat damp shirt, tasted the sweat on Sam's lips and smelled fresh cut plants on the wind making waves in the ocean of grain around them. The last of his fury was going cold, even if that castrated sensation still lingered in his abdomen.

When the kiss broke, he punched Sam in the arm.

" _Thanks_ for savin' me from bein' sexed up by that hot piece of ass. Jerk."

"Bitch."

\----

Dean felt like a three year old on one of those bright blue toddler leashes, getting tugged back on his ass every time he got more than twenty seven feet from Sam. If the demons picked on Chris, shoved him around a little and teased him being nanny to a sleeping demon and his human pet, it wasn’t as denigrating as having your little brother telling you to wait one more minute if you didn’t want to pee in front of an audience of strangers. Having Sam as a keeper made Dean want to sock him, just a little, just one good one right on the jaw, but he didn’t, because Sam would stop giving him surprise blowjobs, and those were really getting him through the day.

They were in the makeshift thing that passed for a bed, Sam’s arm secure around Dean’s chest, and there was only one thing on Dean’s mind. When he heard Chris rustling around next to them, standing up from his own, coarse five dollar sheets, he raised his head a little, and his voice.

“Chris. Dude. Go get me a beer.”

Chris’s sigh answered him from the darkness of the room, but after the demon had gone and peed and splashed cold water on his face to try and cool away the dark circles under his eyes, all his muscles sore from helping bring the trucks in and working grain elevators, he headed downstairs obediently, the soft breathing and louder snores of his sleeping kin drifting from open bedroom doors. He was safer than Dean in the house, but he liked being out from under Sam’s wing less, with demons sidling up to him asking what the price was for him to be _their_ bitch. Like it had to be cheap, even if most of them had the good, cautious idea not to mess around with Sam.

Chris’s bare feet padded softly on the kitchen’s wooden floor, and he glanced behind him and to his sides before he cracked open the refrigerator, taking pause to examine the inventory. There were white paper bags and Ziploc containers with names scribbled across them in sharpie, a thermos with _Emeline_ scrawled on a post-it note, and none of those tempted him. It would be a stupid thing to get into a fight over. But there was sandwich meat, too, and plastic containers with fruit, and a couple different types of jam, bacon in the meat drawer, a half-empty crate of four dozen eggs, twenty-four packs of soda, and beer free range on every shelf. Chris grabbed two beers by their necks and a bottle marmalade and stepped back, pushing the door closed with his foot.

Pierce was standing next to him.

Chris deflated. The other demons he could stand up to.

“Yes,” he admitted, with resignation. “I _am_ the weakest link.” He glanced to the side and spotted the bread, took a deep breath and turned away from Pierce, stepping away to set the beer and marmalade on the counter, every instinct reminding him it was a bad idea to turn his back on any of these people, even Sam and Dean.

“Christopher,” Pierce chided. He moved behind him, opened the white door of the kitchen cabinet, removed a jar of peanut butter, and stepped close to set it next to the marmalade. He had the smile of a used car salesman, kind and patronizing. “Why don’t we skip to the end of the game?”

Chris unraveled the twisty tie on the bread, slid two slices out of the bag, and opened the cabinet doors until he found the plates, the drawers until he found the knives. He was spreading peanut butter when he answered Pierce, feeling like a pair of old pants worn thin in the wash despite the youth of his human body.

“I’ve got a good thing with Sam. I’m not interested. I’m too tired. I’ve done this too many times.”

“We all feel that way by now.” Pierce leaned back against the counter, weight resting on his elbows.

Chris tore a piece of paper towel off the flower patterned roll next to the sink and wiped the dull kitchen knife clean, screwing the lid back on the peanut butter and opening the fresh jar of marmalade with a _pop_.

“That can’t be your best line.”

Pierce frowned, staring off at the breakfast table searching for something profound and compelling. His eyes crept slyly towards Chris.

“We. accept. you. We. accept. you. One. of. us. One. of. us.”

“Ha ha.” Chris rolled his eyes. Finished sandwich on the dishwasher safe hard plastic plate (also floral patterned), he started cleaning up. “Seriously, man. I’m not going for less than a Ferrari Scaglietti and a loft in New York city.”

“You think Samuel will make it that far?”

“I think he’s the wrong guy to piss off.” Chris picked up the beer bottles and the sandwich, offering Pierce a smile begging _no offense_.

“I don’t want him taken out,” Pierce promised. “I want him in my pocket.”

“Even if you had me, I couldn’t give you Sam.” The idea left Chris chuckling.

“What about the human…?”

Chris stumbled over denying that one, searched nervously for an escape route, and then beat a retreat towards the hallway and the stairwell, fingers freezing from the cold beers.

“Christopher…I’m going to keep asking.”

Chris paused in the doorway.

“What’s the worst you can do to me?” He glanced back with an uneasy smile. “If you kill me, I’ll be back home while you do all the work.”

Chris knew right there he’d made some kind of mistake, Pierce stepping forward from the counter, standing tall in the shadowy room, imposing, demanding and captivating. Chris’s hand shook a little, the beers clanking in his hand.

“…did He tell you that’s what happens?” Pierce spoke low and gentle.

“I’ve possessed a human before.” Chris felt his mouth going dry.

“This isn’t possession, Christopher. This is…incarnation. The rules are different.” Pierce was stepping forward, and Chris listened to him, rapt, as Pierce steadied his trembling hand. “It’s eternity or oblivion, now. Most of us asked to look -- see the fine print. But you….You were too busy running from your slimy reputation…weren’t you?”

“I never--…” Fear coiled in Chris’s chest, crushing the air from his lungs. There was the possibility Pierce was lying. There was always that possibility, with their kind, and he tried to remember that.

“Maybe someone like _Him_ could survive that kind of disincorporation, but even He’d suffer from it. That’s why we have to test it.” Pierce’s voice grew more insistent, more insidious, and Chris was hanging on his words. “That’s why those breeder women are locked up in the attic -- why our women are pregnant. That’s why we have to find our immortality before we open the way for the others. But it’s worth it, Christopher.” That full, human name, the name he was bound beneath, had power. It was a name that might have belonged to the human soul that once inhabited that body, but now it was the name of a demon, as true and his as the name he had before he crossed over. “This is our _chance_.”

“…the beer’s getting warm.” Chris felt small, and weak, and nervous, and he looked anywhere but Pierce, looked longingly at the stairwell.

“Don’t let me keep you.” The demon purred. He lifted his hand, and by the time Chris crept a look his way, he was gone.

\----

Sam only left Dean one time, after that.

It was around three in the morning, about a week after they’d arrived. He moved out of their make-shift bed and walked silently over the old floorboards, already having learned which way to lean to avoid the creaks. He went downstairs and outside, the keys to the Mazda in his hands, and moved around to the cellar door, which was external. It wasn’t locked, and he opened the two metal doors, wincing when the rusty metal moaned. He walked down the cement stairs, and looked at the people down there.

It was the old man they’d seen on the first day, and two younger men. One of them looked like he could be the old man’s son, but the other one was clearly either a farm hand or a more distant relative. The women of the household were absent, and Sam was reluctant to look too deep into that.

“Come on. Follow me.” Sam beckoned to them, and he wasn’t too surprised when they did so without comment. They walked up the steps, slower than Sam would like, though they wouldn’t pick up their pace, no matter how much he urged them. He kept glancing back at the house nervously, sure that at any moment someone would walk out on the porch and yell something, waking everyone -- but that never happened. The family got into the Mazda and the windows to the house remained dark.

The drive to Kindersley was as long as he remembered it.

When they were about fifteen miles away from the farm, Sam heard one of the men in the back start to cry. The man next to him in the passenger’s seat was still staring straight ahead, but the emotionless expression he’d worn before had faded into something else, something unnamable, but not emotionless. Far from emotionless.

When Sam pulled into the town, the men got out of the car, no longer needing commands to act. One of them could barely walk.

“My wife, my daughter,” the older man said. He looked down at Sam in the car with equal parts terror and hatred, but the plea for his family didn’t fade.

Sam owed it to him to meet the man’s eyes, and he wished he had more, something else to give.

“…if you see your daughter again, run. Run as far and as fast as you can.”

The man was about to say something else, but Sam turned his gaze back to the road and drove off.

The drive back to the farm was far longer than he remembered.

Every minute his heart was beating in his throat, equal parts choking him and making his vision swim. When he made it back up the stairs and found Dean still asleep, undisturbed, he thought he would faint.

He crawled back into the sheets, his chest to Dean’s back, and tried to draw some warmth from his sibling. The doubt bit at his back, cold and unrelenting.

He pulled Dean closer and shut his eyes.


	22. Chapter 22

There was no inquisition, no accusations, when Sam and Dean came down to breakfast in the morning. They got their pop tarts and sat eating in the living room, Sam on the floor, Dean on the metal frame of the glass coffee table, in a room full of twenty-somethings who also happened to be the minions of Hell. It was at the end of breakfast that Pierce sat his coffee on the end table beside the recliner he'd claimed for his exclusive use, pushed himself out of that battered orange plaid thing, and navigated his way through the demons sprawled out on the floor, eating and conversing, heading not for Sam, but towards Dean. Pierce stopped in front of him, looking down his nose at him, and Dean looking up with that skeptical expression that said _I'm about to make you get out of my face_ \-- a threat of no merit.

Pierce reached down, and he snapped the amulet of Hathor from Dean's neck, one quick jerk against Dean's nape and the leather thong broke at the knot.

"Is this what's protecting you...?" Pierce closed his hand around the necklace, and scrutinized Dean carefully. "...I guess not." He smiled down at the scowling Winchester. "Still, I think I better hold on to it, anyway."

Sam shot up from the floor in one motion.

"Give that back to him," he demanded, staring down at Pierce from his significant height.

Dean looked from Sam to Pierce, Sam towering and dangerous-looking and the demon unintimidated, only glancing coolly to the side, as if to ask if Sam if he really meant that. Conversations had dropped off around the room, with a few demons lifting their heads up, hungry to watch a fight.

"Sam." Dean said his name firm and low, and waited until he saw that minute change in Sam's features, a flinch around Sam's eyes, that meant Sam was listening. "It's just a necklace."

"I'll make you a trade," Pierce offered Sam generously, and he smiled.

"A trade? What the hell? That necklace _belongs_ to him. You can't just take people's things," Sam said, in that unrelenting tone. Sam never settled for 'good enough'. Sam was the guy who would refuse to give over his wallet in a bank robbery because it was the principle of the thing.

"Back off," Pierce crooned, "and I'll give you your brother's safety." There was a deadly glint in his eyes, the consideration of physical violence, a violence that came naturally. 

Sam's eyes flicked up, to the demons that were watching with unnervingly eager eyes. They were waiting for Sam to cross the line. To see their leader put him in his place. 

He grit his teeth, and swallowed his pride.

He took a slow step back.

Pierce had no human shame, oozing pleasure at the sight of Sam submitting in front of him with that unctuous smile.

"Did everyone hear that?" He looked across the assembly gathered in the room. "We're going to be _hospitable_ to...Dean, here." He glanced down at Dean, sitting beneath him, wagging his eyebrows, maliciously playful. He spread his hands, one still clenched around Dean's amulet, grinning like a jester, making eye contact with demons he knew made trouble. "Whatever part offendeth, shall be cutteth off." A few of the demons grumbled, some because they'd had designs in mind, and others because no action came out of that moment of friction. Pierce pushed the necklace into his jeans pocket and turned to face Sam, his humor giving way to a more severe expression. "You don't have time to baby-sit with all the extra work you've made for yourself." His eyes narrowed, although his countenance was calm. "I'm not amused, Samuel. It's your life on the line."

Sam didn't respond. He looked back at Pierce, and he had backed down for Dean, but Sam was the kind of toy you kept.

He didn't break easy. If ever.

He didn't bother with threats or violent outbursts, or promises of death. He was plain, simple and unyielding.

He held out his hands to the side and dipped his head in a mock bow, giving Pierce leave to do his worst.

Pierce's grim expression broke and he laughed, not at Sam, not mocking or deriding: honest and easy laughter.

"Figure out where to put the combines today and keep everything running smooth. And you'll have to keep the books. Her father did that." He nodded his head towards Beatrice. Chuckling, he glanced at Dean, and then gestured to two of the demons nearby, a copper skinned girl from a distant reservation and the French Canadian girl named Emeline. The three demons headed upstairs.

Dean looked up at Sam with that stern, older brother look of warning.

"What'd you do?"

He remembered Sam gone in the night, in a vague, half-asleep kind of way.

Sam ran his lower lip through his teeth, still looking forward and not at Dean. He jutted his chin up slightly, in that way he did when he knew he was going to be reprimanded for something but would utterly refuse to accept that he might have been wrong in any way.

"I drove the family that lived here into town.”

"Stupid do-gooder." Dean sighed, a little exasperated, but he didn't sound mad. "...right thing to do." He couldn't fault Sam for liberating those three people living in slavery, even if he wanted to smack him around the head for it, for endangering himself.

Sam lowered his head a little, looking over at his brother. He offered a weak smile and shrugged a little. No choice was easy and clear cut in this strange, fucked up life they'd stumbled into.

\----

After lunch, Dean exercised his new found freedom, dumping his cup of dirty water into the dirt by the grain elevators and heading back up to the house to get a cup of coffee. He got there, but he didn’t go into the kitchen. He headed upstairs, and rapped on the door of the closed-off room.

Pierce cracked it open it after several seconds, saw Dean, and stepped out into the hallway.

“Whatta you want?” Dean asked him, demanded.

Pierce smiled like he was greeting a friend.

“I didn’t expect you this soon.”

“You were pretty transparent.” Dean had gotten a feeling when Pierce talked to him, looked at him like he was a person that something was up, different. On any usual day Pierce talked to Sam about him, or talked to him through Sam.

Pierce nodded and led Dean into the adjacent bedroom, shutting the door behind them, gesturing to the bed. Dean sat down on one edge, pulling one leg up on the bed, folded beneath it, and Pierce climbed onto it across from him, propped up one of the pillows and leaned back. The sunlight streamed in through the room’s two windows, casting light across the old blue comforter. Pierce dug Dean’s necklace out of his pocket, letting it dangle in front of him, light flashing off its metal back.

“I wanted to talk to you about your brother. But after what I’ve learned…I think I want to talk to _you_.”

Dean frowned, looking at the necklace, mind racing to place Pierce’s meaning. He remembered Walmart, and bantering, and Chris stepping close.

_"Psychometry," Chris offered, suddenly, ready to deal. "It's called...retrocognition. I see the past."_

“Son of a bitch, that little weasel--…”

“Ratted you out? What did you expect?” Pierce dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “I backed him into a corner last night, and he came crawling back come morning.”

Dean grimaced, smacking his fist against his palm. He could think up a couple violent fantasies to exercise on that skinny body, but Pierce treated his anger as a trivial thing.

“I know what you’ve done,” the demon continued. “I know who you’ve killed, the traveler, and His children…I know you met Him and walked away. I could tell the others with a thought, and they’d tear the two of you apart. That’s my leverage.”

“You don’t beat around the point.” Dean stomached his defeat with a grin, wagging his finger Pierce’s way. “I like that about you.”

“I’m not trying to trick you…or deceive you.” Pierce took Dean’s compliment gracefully, with faux appreciation. “I don’t go in for that. And you may kill my kind…with surprising success, but I think we can meet in the middle.”

Pierce’s cold eyes looked meaningfully into Dean’s. Dean looked at him, confused in those first seconds…but then he caught his drift.

“You’re talkin’ about Sam.”

“I don’t know what Chris told you, but someone fed him bad information. Samuel is going to die.” He let those words sink in with Dean. “Sixty or seventy years from now, or less the way the two of you live.” The tone of his voice promised it was no respite. “When that body gives out, he’s finished. He won’t return to Hell. He won’t wander as a spirit. He won’t move on to another life. When that heart stops, he’ll decay with that flesh, suffocating slowly in the ground -- or he’ll go out quick, if you burn him.” Pierce smiled all through his words. “That’s nature’s little reprimand, to let us know we’ve taken too much.”

Dean didn’t trust Pierce. It was far from that. He’d never really trusted Chris, either, and he guessed that’d turned out to be a smart choice. But hearing those words about Sam struck a cold fear inside him. No soul. No hope. Just the slow progression of time leading Dean’s little brother to the place where Nothing waited for him. Even if Pierce was lying, now, it was still a matter of time, only a little more time. Dean didn’t think Chris had been lying about that. Chris was a lousy liar, tricking people only by omissions.

“Exactly where is it you wanna meet up?” Dean asked. He was surprised by the dead lack of emotion in his own voice. With Sam’s existence in the balance, there was no one he wouldn’t bargain with.

Pierce didn’t bother to mask his delight.

“There are things I could do with a willing human subject that would be…impossible with a someone I was controlling,” he purred, devouring Dean with his eyes like a cougar stalking in the brush. It wasn’t at all sexual. Dean’s body was just a convenient container for that insubstantial thing inside that all humans had, that Pierce didn’t, that Pierce _wanted_. He glanced away, out the window, a small crease forming in his brow. “You love him. I didn’t need Christopher to tell me that.” His brown eyes snuck slowly back to Dean. “You would give him your soul, wouldn’t you…?”

Dean sat speechless with the possibility. The _idea_ of messing with forces so timeless. Demons had no souls, and whatever religion’s take on them you picked, it was some kind of punishment. They were somehow _less_. The idea of Sam as less, as unworthy of the permanence humans apparently took for granted…It sickened him. It sounded like a big cosmic joke. 

“…I would.”

Pierce tucked the amulet back into his pocket, and he spoke to Dean as one sentient being to another, with none of his so-frequent condescension.

“Would you like to try?”

\----

Chris found the whole left side of his body intimately acquainted with the wall of the almost-empty farmhouse, pain shooting through his elbow, and Dean followed his shove up with a punch to the face that split Chris’s lip.

“Oughta knock you senseless, you backstabbin’ sack of shit.”

Chris fell to his knees, ears ringing, and he huddled back against the wall, holding his hands up in useless defense, words babbling from his lips. He was starting to think it’d been a bad idea to wait around and find out what happened.

“You should. You can. I won’t stop you. Dean, please. I’m not a fighter. I’m not a lover, either. I’m a loser. You _know_ I’m a loser.”

“You couldn’t stop me if you wanted to,” Dean growled.

“That, too,” Chris squeaked.

Dean’s fist slammed into the other side of Chris’s face, raising a matching welt. He hovered above him as Chris collapsed to his knees on the wooden floor.

“What’d he give you, hunh? How little'd it take?”

“Nothing,” Chris promised. “He didn’t give me anything.”

Dean stared down at him. The way Chris swore it, it was like the demon thought that was somehow _better_.

“You want Sam to live, don’t you?” Chris groveled. “You want him to have more than this, more than us…You, me, and Pierce? We all want the same thing.” Chris could feel his gig wearing thin, and the possibility of Dean finishing him was there in Dean’s face. “He just wanted to talk to you. But you’re a hard guy to pin down. When I was looking for dirt on you, I didn’t think I’d find… _that_. I didn’t think I’d find anything like that.”

“Why’d you tell him?” There wasn’t a speck of sympathy in Dean’s voice.

“My face gave it away.” Chris looked miserable through his loose blonde hair. “I gave him Indianapolis, I gave him the abortion, but he knew there was more and I…choked.”

Dean’s shoulders slumped, and he felt his anger leaking out of him, the desire to make Chris pay with more clinging on only vaguely.

“You’re never gonna hear ‘It’s not your fault,’” he warned. “It’s completely your fault.” He shook his head, gesturing towards the windows and the fields beyond. “You think Pierce is gonna protect you from those guys out there? Pierce doesn’t give a flyin’ fuck about you.”

“I didn’t sell Sam out, Dean,” Chris promised. “I got you a way in.”

Dean pushed his hands back through his short hair, worn out, head to foot.

“Maybe you believe that,” he grunted sullenly. “Hell, maybe you’re right.”

\----

The next two weeks Sam was barely around. He moved machinery, cleared junk out of some of the unused fields, drove the grain from field to silo himself. The temperatures began to dip, the beginning of September bringing harsh chill winds from the north, but Sam often worked in a plain shirt or shirtless.

Someone had stolen his long sleeved clothes in the night, and he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of asking for them back.

He was woken up at or before dawn each morning, crawling out from his bed with Dean, and didn't come in from the fields until well passed sundown, taking whatever food was left over from dinner. He got a few hours sleep, and then would be kicked awake to start it all again. He got up every morning and if his skin was dirty and his body sore, his eyes hadn't altered from the day in the kitchen. He stared down at whoever Pierce had sent to wake him, and then he would go downstairs, grab a piece of fruit or bread, and he would go outside without complaint.

When a storm came in, long and harsh, and everyone had to stay inside, Pierce sat on the deck and watched Sam dismantle the broken down old fence at the bottom of the farmhouse's yard. Sam slipped in the mud and dug his feet in, hands grasping the splintered old wood and piece by piece taking it down, hands and arms finding rusty nails with painful accuracy. He came in only when the job was done, and walked past the demons that watched him without a word or faltering in his steps. He went to the bathroom and ran the water in the sink as hot as he could and held his shaking, bleeding hands under it. He picked the pieces of wood out of the heel of his palm.

Dean saw him pass and followed him into the bathroom. He stood in the doorway, watching Sam pick at his hands. He walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

"What were you doin'?" He stepped up behind Sam, reaching forward to steady his trembling arms, concern in his words. "You shoulda let me help."

"That's what they want. They want to see me give in. If I asked for help, they would have helped me, but--..." That would have been the fight. Sam was drenched through with icy rain, and splattered with mud, except for his calves and knees, which were covered in it. He grunted and pulled a splinter the size of his pinkie out of his hand. He sighed. "It's just another one of Pierce's things." He shrugged, tossing the bloody thing aside.

Dean rested his head against Sam's big arm, Sam's body chill against him, watching the water run pinkish with Sam's blood, spiraling the drain into the sink. He could hear rain pattering against the shingled roof above them.

"What're you winnin', bein' this way?"

"...not winning anything," Sam responded, straightening at Dean's words, looking faintly surprised. "But I'm not giving in, either. You can't ask that from me." He couldn't imagine his brother, proud and defiant in the face of evil, letting him give in to some demon. Sam snorted and laughed. "You never _would_ ask that from me." He shook his head at himself for even thinking of it, and turned off the water. "I'm gonna shower -- you wanna join me?"

"Hell yeah, I do," Dean grinned, letting go of Sam to lock the bathroom door. It was a big stall shower, and not the first time since they got to the farm they'd knocked out a bath together, maybe with a little something on the side. Dean didn't know how many of the demons had done the same thing in the same shower. Dean never thought about it if he could, because...yuck.

These days, however, they did things like that less. Sam was bone tired and cold all the way through from the rain. He didn't feel all that sexy, or inclined to be sexy. He turned on the water and ran it hot and just stood under the spray. He fell asleep for a second and almost fell over. He shook his head, though, and tried to get all the mud off himself.

Dean held Sam up and washed the mud away, sudsy hands strong and gentle on Sam's skin, and he rested his head in the crook of Sam's neck, and he nuzzled Sam’s skin, while Sam nodded in and out of consciousness against his shoulder, but he didn't ask for more than for Sam to let him stand there close and clean his body.

Sam smiled a little, leaning into his brother as Dean washed him, taking a little energy and comfort from Dean's concern.

Sam got to the shampoo at the same time there was a loud banging on the door.

"Winchester! You're making dinner tonight. Hurry up!"

There wasn't really a question of which Winchester they were speaking of.

"All I'm sayin'..." Dean said lowly, and slow, "is Pierce gets his jollies makin' you jump hoops. I'd be doin' the same thing you are...but that don't mean I like to watch it, Sammy."

"Yeah...but Pierce doesn't have anything on Dad. Remember the five mile runs? Carrying supplies through cross country treks? I can do more than this. Just a little tired, is all." Sam shifted and leaned down to find Dean's lips, tongue curling lazy in his brother's mouth. "He's gonna have to push a lot harder than that if he thinks he's gonna snap me." He ducked back into the spray, washing the last of the suds off, then stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel. "I better get on dinner."

"I'm just gonna...do my hair." Dean jerked his thumb towards the gushing spigot. Dean watched Sam's broad back, rippling wet as Sam dried his body, terry cloth rubbing over a farmer's tan. He wished for a minute Sam was a little less stubborn, a little more likely to let Dean do what Dean wanted to do for him.

The first thing they'd tried, Dean had suggested to Pierce they steal from that episode of _The Simpsons_ , and he wrote _I, Dean Winchester, sign over my soul to Samuel Winchester_ , and he signed it -- not exactly like _The Simpsons_ , because he wrote it in his own blood. That hadn't worked. Pierce told him he could still _smell_ the soul on him. They'd tried crystals and hoodoo and some pretty weird rituals in that once-closed room with its alters and athames and strange supplies while Sam broke his back out in the field. Dean was pretty sure there were some human organs in there, but he'd drained the blood out of a dead man, taken human ashes, and made a few other indiscretions against the dead over the years. All he could say was he had a less selfish reason, and hadn't killed those people himself.

They were getting down to the options that would take a lot more of his blood than a prick, and nothing seemed different about Sam.

If Sam had been any less busy, any less exhausted, he would have noticed his brother's absence, and, if not that, at least a change in his demeanor. But he got dressed and went out to cook a half-assed dinner, staying up to clean up the dishes when everyone was done eating (and complaining about the cooking). After that he walked upstairs and got into the sheets on the floor that functioned as his and Dean's bed, grateful for sleep.

He missed the nuances of Dean that he was usually so perceptive of.

\----

Sam tugged off his work gloves, panting against the last banister of the steps up to the porch of the farmhouse. They were putting the combines up for the season, and Sam was wiped, and they were moving all the grain from the silos into the shipping trucks.

It was hard not to see this as a monumental waste of time. There was a demon out there with designs on the immortal soul of man (as far as Sam could tell), and he was somehow part of that, and so many people had died, and he was...harvesting grain. For demons. Days like today, he wanted to throw up his hands and move on to a new lead. But the reality of the situation was that this was their best lead, if they ever hoped to find the main demon himself.

Sam tossed the gloves down on the porch as he walked up it, tripping on the last step with a faint curse. He walked inside the farmhouse, seeing various people he'd come to know by name and little else over the past couple of weeks. 

He caught one by the arm.

"Where's my brother?"

The demon tugged his arm out of Sam's grasp with a disgusted look and shrugged, walking away.

"Upstairs," one of the ones watching TV said blandly, pointing to a door on the upper landing that had been closed to him since he'd gotten here. His blood ran cold in that instant, and he jogged up the stairs quickly, opening it without knocking.

Dean knelt on the floor in the center of a circle of salt, and Pierce knelt across from him, within the circle, cupping the side of Dean's head, and gripping his wrist, because Dean looked pale and dazed and Pierce held his arm suspended above a silver basin, Dean's dark blood pouring red from a wicked, diagonal gash on his forearm. A blade lay bloody on the wooden floor beside the bowl, and long bandages, in a pile, too.

Sam stood still for a second. Less than a second. A beat of a heart. He'd been trained too long to act, not think, and he did just that. Long legs carried him in three swift strides to slap Pierce away, disturbing the circle. He grabbed Dean's arm and yanked it back, clapping his hand over the wound, putting hard pressure on it.

"Fuck..." he hissed, then looked to glare at Pierce. "I should have known better than to take you at your word."

Dean's eyes flickered in a panic from Sam to the bowl, confusion on his face, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Pierce was already talking, the words commanding.

"Calm down, Samuel. I was going to put him back the way I found him."

"Fuck you! What the hell were you doing to him!?" Sam looked around and spotted the bandages, reaching out to grab them. He began to bandage his brother's arm quickly, kneeling down beside him.

"Sam," Dean whispered -- pleaded. His lips were dry. His body ached. He swooned, lightheaded. "It's only a little more..."

"You see?" Pierce purred. "It _volunteered_."

Sam stared at Dean in shock, horror even. What the hell was Dean doing? Sam couldn't imagine his big brother, so strong, so resistant, so hateful of these things, giving in and _volunteering_ to do whatever the hell they wanted. It wasn't like him.

It wasn't like him at _all_. 

Sam looked back up at Pierce with a ferocious glare. There was no way Dean would do something like this. Playing with people's minds was well within the reach of these things. It wasn't beyond them, and the fact that Pierce referred to Dean as 'it' proved that to Sam.

"He's not an _object_."

Pierce reached out slowly, brazenly to grasp Dean's wrist, above the wound, cheek smarting from Sam's blow. He smiled underneath gleaming eyes.

"To us, he is."

The statement was plain and simple, yet it sent a shock through Sam’s system, straight up his spine. He remembered Chris warning him not to take Dean with him. It was so difficult to think of these people as demons. They didn’t look like demons. They didn’t even look like the possessed, but when Sam stared at Pierce, he saw just as much wanton hatred and darkness in him as any creature they’d fought before. 

And yet he was still human too. His life was still human. Pierce’d had parents once. He’d been raised as a human. He’d laughed and played with other children. He had memories of holidays with his family. He remembered his first kiss. He was as human, and as inhuman, as Sam.

Sam’s gaze whipped to his brother, with the perverse knowledge that Dean was the least evil of all things here. 

He lashed out, striking Pierce across the face with all his considerable strength.

“I said, _get away from him_.” Sam stood up, Dean the only thing worth protecting in this place.

Pierce fell backwards, spilling the bowl, Dean’s life rolling out across the floor in a crimson wave, the white salt stained pink, then red, as it soaked that liquid up, as Sam rose to stand between the demon and Dean. Pierce wiped his mouth, the back of his hand coming away with a little blood. He looked down at it, and smiled, again.

“If you think He’ll punish me for killing you, you’re wrong,” the Pierce spoke low, rising to his feet and straightening his back. He moved fast, intent on putting Sam in his place. He kicked out at Sam’s side, which the hunter avoiding easily. Sam rolled back, coming to crouch. He placed his hand down, ready to jump and move when the other man struck again. 

Dean glanced between them, and squared his jaw, and tried to tie the bandage off, fingers fumbling and his arm still bleeding.

Sam glanced towards the door, where the demons from the living room had congregated with curiosity, Sam and Pierce’s little drama the entertainment of _weeks_. They were watching eagerly, eyes affixed on Sam’s form. They were excited. They were waiting for blood.

Sam saw that as human as they were, they were just as much animal. There was nothing that would put them in their place, no words or sentiment that would change their minds. They had no respect for human life. Not one of them did but him. Sam saw Chris, standing calm in the crowd, watching him with the same anticipation. The promises of protection that Sam had given him didn’t really matter to Chris. Just like any moments of kindness they’d shown him, as few and far between as they’d been. Strength was what mattered. Sam knew in his stomach that if he lost to Pierce, Chris would find someone else to make a deal with.

Pierce brought his fist down and Sam lifted both arms, crossing them over his head to catch the arm, then thrusting his body weight up, throwing his attacker off. Pierce stumbled back, and then something changed in his eyes, as if he finally saw Sam as a fighter.

"I guess I shouldn't play around with a hunter of your caliber."

Sam's eyes narrowed, his muscles going tense at those words.

The next time the Pierce struck, it was fast. Not too fast for someone like Sam, someone as trained as Sam, to follow, but fast. It was only a heaven sent blessing that Sam decided to dodge instead of block.

When Pierce’s fist came down, it never hit the floor. Instead, a few inches out, the floor exploded, leaving a splintered, crack ridden crater, six inches in diameter. Sam stared at the spot, his body in the process of falling back.

Motion seemed slow as he tried to process, tried to catch up with what had just happened. Pierce swung again, and the wall next to Sam’s chest shattered in the same way. Sam’s eyes followed the hit again, watching the way that the other man’s fist never actually impacted the wall, like he was surrounded by some invisible barrier. He heard Dean cursing _Holy shit_ and Dean had staggered to his feet, but this wasn’t some automaton of a trucker in the night, this was Max Miller all over again, and worse, powers even more controlled and precise, and Pierce flung Dean into a shelf of knives, and bowls, and stranger tools with a thought. The shelves broke with the impact and Dean fell, winded.

Sam ducked and rolled away from the next potentially fatal hit, onto the landing, the demons scattering, but hovering close, finding his mind scrambling to catch up and leaving his body in a lurch. Sam’s mind was trying to analyze what it was he was seeing even as he was attempting to escape. Telekinesis could move objects -- could it be used like a battering ram? Sam wasn’t sure. As far as he knew, telekinesis wasn’t a physical presence in and of itself. It wasn’t a physical hand that picked up the object. The object itself was commanded to move. 

Another section of floor cracked as Pierce lunged out the door and Sam gasped as he tried to move himself away, his weight getting the better of him, and throwing him off his feet, his mind still racing.

Air was an object, just like any other. It could be moved and shifted and crammed, just like a table or a gun. If the telekinesis was directed at the air itself, pushing it together and pressurizing it into a point, the motion could be directed like a charge, released on impact, breaking whatever was in the way -- wooden floor or living body.

Sam’s hand fell back against wood, scraping, as the fist swung.

He was fighting for his life.

It wasn’t the first time. He fought for his life all the time -- but not like this. He could count on one hand the number of times that it felt like _this_.

There had been times he’d faced down a ghost, or a monster, when he’d felt the adrenaline kick in, when he felt his breath pick up, his heart hammering in his chest, in his ears. But it all happened fast. He’d bring the shotgun to bear or shove something, furniture or garbage or something, between him and it, and struggle through. There were times when he was down and being taken out, times like when the electrical cord in their house tried to strangle him, holding him down and choking the life out of him, and he’d felt himself fade towards darkness slowly, but every minute that ticked by he thought ‘ _This is the minute someone will save me_.’ There were other moments, moments of suspension, like when the shapeshifter had been standing over him with a knife, or when Meg had tied him to the column and threatened his life, or when the demon inside of his father had pinned him helpless to a wall. Moments when his life hung in the hands of something or someone else and he was unable to do anything about it, except those moments gave him time to plan, to think. All of these moments he was familiar with.

But these moments, moments like this one, these were rare. 

He remembered being fourteen and on one of his earlier hunts. He remembered running through the woods, hearing It on his trail, hearing It carving through the forest, through trees and branches and brambles. He could hear it _breathing_. He remembered running that night, running for his life, with the god honest knowledge that he was going to die.

That was this moment.

Dean had staggered out onto the landing, but the demons shoved and held him back. Dean was angry, cursing fierce, but he couldn’t save Sam.

Another hit came, fast and hard and the floor was crushed next to Sam’s head. He felt debris fly at him, splinters in a painful burst against his cheek. He scrambled back, feet barely finding purchase. He wasn’t running anymore -- he couldn’t get his feet under him. The hits were coming too fast, too hard, and all he could do was try to desperately claw his way towards the stairs, his nails and fingers ripping apart in the grains of the unpolished wood, leaving bloody smears as he flung himself away from that ever-coming onslaught.

His feet shoved back and forth, like he was trying to run while horizontal, slipping against the floorboards, and another hit came. He’d rolled over on to his stomach to try and get some more traction, maybe be able to right himself, but it left him blind. This hit smacked into the ground next to his stomach and large chunks of wood, displaced by the impact, jolted upwards, digging into his gut and leaving him rasping for air.

He fell to the side and kicked out, foot catching Pierce’s ankle, kicking his feet out from under him.

He remembered his father’s words.

_Always remember that you are at a disadvantage. Your enemy will always be more powerful than you. Stronger than you, faster than you. Your enemy may be insubstantial -- able to move through solid objects. They may be able to lift houses. No matter what, no matter how strong you feel, no matter how safe you feel, always, always remember that you are at a disadvantage._

He managed to struggle to his feet, tripping and slipping forward, his arms wheeling about as he choked and coughed air into his winded lungs. His body surged forward, finally getting his feet under him, when he curved upwards, into a backwards C shape as something penetrated his skin. He was suspended in the air for a moment before he felt whatever it was yanked out of his back, and he collapsed again. He could feel blood on his back and he was still trying to get oxygen, but he didn’t have time. He didn’t have time. He tried to turn himself over again, and he could hear the others, hear them all around him, laughing and snapping and moving eagerly from foot to foot, waiting for the kill, and he thought: ‘ _This is it. This time I’m really going to die_.’

He managed to flip himself over, his mind still whirring, searching for an answer, an escape plan, some piece of training or knowledge that would save him.

_But there’s one thing you have that they don’t. No matter what they are, spectre or demon, there’re rules they gotta live by. Laws that govern all they do. Vengeful ghosts always gotta walk the same road, take people the same way. Demons always gotta destroy, gotta kill. They live in circles. They may have powers beyond comprehension, they may be able to fly or vanish or move so fast you can’t even see them, but there’s one thing that every human’s got that they don’t have._

Pierce was moving towards him again, and he slashed with one hand, straight at Sam’s head. Pierce was standing about five feet back, and couldn’t possibly have hit Sam at that distance, but Sam ducked automatically, anyways. There was the chalky sound of plaster shattering and rubble cracked and fell and hit Sam’s head.

_Will._

_Human’s have will. A human? He can chose to kill, or he can chose mercy. He can run, or he can fight. Humans can chose to see, or they can chose to ignore. Humans have choice. Always remember that. In the end it’s your only weapon. When your gun’s empty and your knife’s dull, this? This’ll still be with you. All the others? Your trunk full of weapons? They gotta go through the test of time like everything else. They gotta fade, like everything else. When it comes down to it, this is your one advantage, and you never forget it. At the end of the day it ain’t the blessed knife that’s gonna be savin’ your ass, it’s your ability to adapt. Your ability to make choices. That’s something that no creature's got but you._

Except it wasn’t true, not anymore. 

Sam gasped for air and looked up, his hair and shoulders covered in white dust from where the plaster had been torn apart. He saw the wall over him, where his head had been a moment ago, and there were three distinct valleys carved into it. Claw marks. 

Sam’s head snapped back, and he stared at Pierce who was just standing there and smirking at him, holding up a hand that looked perfectly normal.

Adaptation. Will.

The other man had learned to bend his telekinesis into pressurized air. Sam had never thought beyond picking up an object and moving it across a room, but this human/demon thing had made air into a weapon, formed his telekinesis over his fingers to make fake claws, ones that could extend as far as he wanted. That’d been what had dug into Sam’s back -- nothing at all but air.

Sam’s eyes grew wider and wider. He had no advantage. He had no leverage. He had no space to back up and no weapons to use. This was a human and a demon all at once, and it had no weaknesses. Every ability Sam had, it had. Every strength Sam had, it had. 

He watched Pierce raise his hand high, and there was no move he could do to block a blow that could crush hard wood. There would be no last minute rescue. There was no moment of suspension when a plan could be devised and implemented.

Sam was going to die.

**_Help me._ **

He saw the hand come down, saw it cut through his shoulder and bone and flesh and chest and he gasped as he saw his torso torn apart, his left shoulder flopping off to the side with his arm still attached to it as he was sliced like meat down to his stomach. He saw it and he jumped to the right, suddenly, landing on his side and curling to control his tumble down the stairs.

Pierce’s hand whiffed harmlessly to the left, where Sam no longer was.

Sam blinked, confused, looking up the long staircase. He patted his body. Nothing was wrong besides his previously existing injuries. He was unharmed. Pierce seemed just as confused. He shook it off though, leapt over the banister, landing crouched, and lunged again at Sam.

Sam saw Pierce’s hand come up and he was impaled on the pressurized air as it clawed into his chest, under his ribcage and gutted him. He was lifted up off the ground, his legs dangling and his mouth open in shock and horror as his intestines fell out through the huge cut like a slippery rope, slithered on to the ground. He saw it and he flung himself backwards, on to his back as Pierce’s hand came up and hit nothing at all.

Again, Sam was unharmed.

He gulped air. What the _hell_ was happening?

He scrambled around, back on to his feet. He could hear the others’ yapping and cat calling begin to fade as confusion set in. Pierce was standing there, regarding him more warily.

That’s when it hit him. 

Visions. He was having visions. Split second flashes a few milliseconds into the future. He was seeing the moves before they were being dealt, and it wasn’t giving him a migraine. He panted, staring at the other human-turned-demon hybrid. He swallowed hard.

He was scared to look too close at this. He knew where that plea had gone, where his helpless, desperate call for aid had gone to -- vanished into the dark, deep down into those layers of dark and that face that stared up at him.

He couldn’t think about that.

Instead he concentrated on the idea that maybe, just maybe... _he could win this fight_.

He Saw Pierce lung forward, swinging his right arm in an arc.

_Right._

Sam swung to the side before the move was even made, and it slid through the air harmlessly.

He Saw Pierce kick out, bringing his foot down in an arc.

_Back._

Sam jumped back before Pierce had even started to move, and his foot hit nothing at all.

“Ah…” Sam panted, a slow, feral-mad grin came to his bloody lips slowly. “Ah ha…ha ha!” he laughed, swinging his body in an easy, almost graceful arc to the left, twirling around out of control and not caring. He held his arms out to the side recklessly and arching his back to miss the next blow.

His foot slammed against the carpet to stop himself, and then he jumped forward. He Saw Pierce hold up his hands, making a barrier of air to stop Sam. Sam changed his direction as Pierce began to lift his hands to do so, and Sam ran to the side, shifting his weight. He spun his leg out to catch all his weight and slammed the shin of his opposite leg into the middle of Pierce’s back, sending the other man hurtling forward to smack into his own air shield.

He watched Pierce crumple. Sam ran the back of his hand over his lips and the section of skin just under his nose, coming away with pink and red saliva and mucus.

Pierce moved carefully, bringing his arms under him slowly as he began to try and lift himself. Sam came back to himself and ran to the other side of Pierce, grabbing the heavy metal lamp from the end table by Pierce’s recliner, yanking the shade off of it. Sam bounced on the balls of his feet as he looked at it and moved backwards towards Pierce.

Pierce had just gotten up on to all fours when the base hit the back of his skull with a wet mash. He made a dumb grunt and fell hard on to his chest. He moaned gutturally and the wrist of his left arm, splayed out to his side, twitched in some half-forgotten motion. Sam raised his hand and brought the lamp down again.

The blood gushed from the fissure by the fourth hit, a bloody crater of skull, hair and brain visible. The lamp came down again, and there was a dull _thunk-crack_ as the neck was snapped, skin already peeled off of it. The splintered bone dug into the soft tissue of his brain stem, and everything short circuited. Pierce’s body finally stopped its messy, shaky spasms, and went still. The lamp came down again, and a sixth time.

When Sam swung the lamp in a final, seventh, sideways arc, snapping Pierce’s head to the side at an unnatural angle, a fragment of skull broke loose and hit the carpet with scalp and hair still attached. Sam was panting, holding the bloodied instrument out to the side. He stared down at Pierce’s body for a long moment, waiting for movement, for retaliation.

The body stayed still.

Sam crawled off it slowly. He’d come to straddle it at some point. He got to his feet, body still shaking with adrenaline, and let the lamp drop to the blood wet carpet. 

Sam stood over Pierce’s body and stared down at it. After a moment, he reached down, opening his right hand to clutch the other man’s neck. His thumb slid into the wet warm of his neck, brushing over crushed vertebrae, digging in through the soft cords of nerves previously protected by spine, digging down into the soft flesh, while Sam’s fingers wrapped around the front of his throat, rested against the skin.

He paused, then straightened himself, lifting the corpse by that stem. He let his arm hang at his side, the body dangling there, head and body in a V shape with the neck as the apex. Sam turned his head to regard the other demons. They were all looking at him, and he felt a sudden wave of nausea and fear -- there was no way he could fight off all of them

“…what…What are you looking at?” he spat, trying to sound strong.

There was no reply as there were mutterings going through the group, before finally one of the ones near the front took half a step forward.

“Should we clean up the house?”

Sam’s eyes widened a little. He had his thumb in the neck of the leader. The strongest one. The corpse in his hands was no longer a body, but a trophy.

“…do that,” he said, finally, dropping Pierce’s carcass on to the floor with a wet smack. “And bury this.” He shook his head, flicking blood off of it. He moved towards the group, then looked up at his brother on the landing.

Dean leaned with one hand and heavy on the rail, his wounded arm cradled against his body. There was a sadness in his eyes more like resignation. He wasn't disappointed, or disgusted. He knew how easy it was to give into that same feeling. He'd come to protect Sam from that fury inside him, but he'd triggered it, instead, and now Sam was the same as him.

A murderer, willfully taking life.

Sam looked up at him, and the sadness in Dean's expression broke him. The younger of the Winchester brothers looked lost, and a faint tremor ran through his body. But he couldn't give into that, not yet.

He took a deep breath and looked to the group lifting up the body. He swallowed and looked at Chris.

"...What happened?" Sam asked, finally.

Chris glanced around, nervous, as the remaining demons stepped away from him -- more demons than had been at the door when the fight began, more that had come in at the sound of the fight. They moved away from the object of Sam’s scrutiny.

"Dean...and I...Pierce--...I thought--...and Dean..." He couldn't spin the story fast enough to make sense.

Sam took one step closer.

"Chris. _What did you do?_ "

"I read Dean's necklace for Pierce!" Chris blurted.

"...you sold us out," Sam said, a low hiss, leaning in closer. "You gave Dean over to him..." He took in a slow breath, and by the time he spoke again, his face was mere inches from Chris’s. "Give me one good reason why I should let you go."

"I didn't...Dean. Dean'll tell you." Chris was as pale as Dean was up on the landing, like all the blood had left his body.

Sam drew back, slowly. He began to walk towards the stairs.

"...do whatever you want with him," he said wearily, putting his foot on the first step.

The other demons paused in their tasks, a gleeful light coming to their eyes as they looked over at Chris. A few began to walk towards him.

"Wait. Sam. Don't just..." Chris stared into the eager faces of his peers, and stared at Sam's retreating back, searching for his voice. He found it: "He's gonna kill him!"

"Stop," Sam said, and they all paused. Sam looked through the crowd from his position on the stairs. He looked at Chris, his eyes tired but tight.

"...Who? Tell me what you mean."

"Dean. He'll kill him. It'll be your birthday party." Chris laughed weakly, his expression crumpling. He sought anything in Sam's eyes that might be a stay of execution, Sam imminent and the master he betrayed far away. "Every year, He checks on us that one day...He clears off what's holding us back."

Sam looked over at the other demon, taking in his words, taking in the meaning inherent in them. He swallowed slowly, and purposefully didn't look at Dean.

The other demons waited, almost buzzing with energy, but they made no move, not yet. Chris had given Sam what he asked for, had given the information in good faith that his life would be spared.

Sam took in a breath and raised his head, his eyes as unyielding as that day in the kitchen.

"...when you kill him, do it outside. There's already enough to clean up."

They descended, like wolves, and Chris cried out in fear before he cried out in pain. Sam ascended the staircase, and the crowd jostled to get outside, to get out the door, Chris's screams more like shrieks, piercing and sharp and Sam looked down at each creaky step as he walked up it.

It was like every other day, coming in beaten and battered from working, keeping his head up, no matter how much he wanted to collapse. He passed Dean, and his eyes stayed trained on the floor, eyes running over one or two of his own fingernails, embedded in the wood of the hallway, little brown smears of blood around them. He walked down the hallway, refusing to show any weakness before them, like every day, refusing to give in to the exhaustion outside of closed doors, to lower his head to them.

He opened the door to their bedroom, and he waited, waited until Dean entered, before shutting it. Only then did he make even a sound.


	23. Chapter 23

Sam couldn't breathe.

He couldn't breathe.

He kept trying, but he couldn't. He sucked in a little air and then his lungs would close up and he'd hiccup out a breath and try again but each time it'd just happen again and he was dizzy. He was going to faint.

He hadn't fainted since he was ten and he saw his father sewing up Dean's stomach.

Sam's forehead was on his brother's shoulder. His hands, still coated in blood, were held out to the side, hovering over Dean's shoulders, like he couldn't touch him with them like that -- which was legitimate, the blood was still wet. His body was shaking violently.

There were sick noises coming in from outside the house. Shrieks of glee and dull thuds and every time Chris's blood curdling screams broke through the air, Sam's whole body would jerk. 

He choked and gasped like a fish out of water against Dean's skin, not crying, just trying to _breathe_.

Dean slid his arms around Sam's body and stroked his back, murmuring soothing words.

"Breathe, Sam. Breathe for me. It's over. I'm here. Just breathe for me.."

"Ka--...K--..." His breath rasped and his throat closed up and he actually whined, like a dog, in any attempt to bring air in to his lungs. His fingers were shaking so hard it looked like he was purposely moving his arms. It was all involuntary. 

Something hit the side of the house and Chris was still alive because his voice came through clear, breathy and high, still trying to scream through a throat bled raw.

The 'thud' noise made Sam jump and gasp in fear and thank god for that because it seemed to get him breathing again, fast and short.

Dean tried to shut his ears to the sound. It was demons, dealing with their own and Dean thought of Chris laughing and Chris in the back of their car, but he knew, too, that Chris would turn on his kin with the same carnal glee. He tried to shut his mind to the memory of that same anger alive in Sam.

"That's good, Sammy. Real good. Let's slow it down, now. Let's breathe slow."

"W-Why can't...I just b-be like them...? Just...b-be evil. I want...It'd be so m-much easier--..." his voice got high, tight and he bit his lower lip hard to stop its shaking. He finally released it and sucked in another breath. "W-why does everything h-have to keep...g-going like this? It's not...not fair..."

"It's gonna stop, Sammy. We're gonna make it stop. Whatever we gotta do."

A scared part of Dean knew how far he was willing to take that. It'd only be a matter of time before Sam calmed down and Sam asked and Dean wasn't sure what he'd say. He'd tell him the truth, though. No question of that. He touched blood from the wound on Sam's lower back. Sam's fingers were bleeding. He needed him calm so he could bandage him up. He was still light headed from his own blood loss, but it wasn’t important right now.

"Dean..." Sam said wetly and his arms came up, around Dean's neck, bloody hands held up behind Dean's head, away from him, not touching him, fingers crookedly sticking up in the air.

Dean smiled a little despite it all. Here was his little brother. Covered in blood. And outside, Chris had stopped screaming. Every time they thought they found the bottom of the barrel, it just kept going down and down and down. Despite all that, Sam still let him calm him, just his touch and his words.

"Breathe, right now, little brother. We've got time to talk."

Sam's brow furrowed tight, as he struggled to hold it all down, hold it all in, just a little longer. He smiled a little, palely, hidden away where Dean couldn't see his face.

"...when it's all over, when we finish this--…Let's go somewhere. Out in the middle of no where. Away. And we can...fish. And things...Okay? We can be stupid and domestic. Just for a little while." Somewhere where the whole world wasn't on the line, where they could fall to pieces finally and maybe build each other back up again.

"Never done much fishin'." Dean considered that proposition and the likelihood of them getting through the fight in one piece. It wasn't about what was likely, though, it was about Sam in his arms and falling apart. "A boat, some beer, all afternoon...I can cook it up for you for dinner, 'cause god knows you can't cook..."

Sam let out a laugh, tight and a little wet, baring teeth in a weak grin against Dean's collar. 

"Yeah, that'd be good...I think that'd be okay."

"You wanna sit down? The bed's all ours." Dean doubted a one of the demons outside would protest if they took up the whole _room_ as theirs.

"Okay," Sam replied and followed Dean's directions, unwrapping his arms from his brother without letting his hands touch him, or anything else. He held them out to his sides, fingers held unflexed.

Dean picked up one of the sheets from the nests of white fabric on the floor around the bed, bundling it into his arms and returning to Sam.

"Lemmie clean you off...?" Dean said it real unobtrusive. Just looking at Sam, it was hard to tell how bad he was in shock and Dean didn't want to say the wrong thing -- freak him out, again.

Sam looked up at his brother, not crying and despite the sharp intakes of breath and the nasally quality of his voice, there were no tracks to suggest he'd been crying at all.

But that was just Sam's way.

"Yeah." Sam held out his hands and he looked down at his palms, brightly red with both his own blood and Pierce's. One of his fingernails had been snapped half way down, still some nail there, but above it was just bleeding flesh. Another was missing completely, only the quick hovering over the wound. He could feel the gash in his back and the bruises on his body, but it was his hands he was strangely captivated with. For a moment he hesitated, curling them back to himself, but then seemed to think better of it and he extended them again.

Dean wiped the blood from his body, pulled out a pocket knife and cut strips to bandage Sam’s fingers and back, taking care of him with firm hands. Sam would need a shower later, but right now his wounds needed time to close, the blood time to congeal. Dean led Sam to the bed and they sat down together, painful, unspoken words darkening the atmosphere.

Sam rested his bandaged hands between his knees and looked down at the floorboards. He could hear the other demons moving around the house, could hear their voices and their footsteps.

"I'm cold," he said, after a moment.

Dean moved closer to him and put his arm around him, let his other arm, its bandage bled brown through, rest loose over Sam's waist, head against Sam's shoulder. He didn't know if blood-loss-guy had enough body heat to count, but moments of physical nearness had been too far between in the recent weeks.

Sam looked down and noticed Dean's arm and he seemed surprised. Somehow he'd forgotten about it.

"Your arm..." Sam reached down, taking Dean's forearm in his hands. He began to unwrap the hastily placed bandages.

Dean pulled his arm away, cradling it against his side. The arm was too many explanations he wasn't sure he was ready to give.

"It's clotting. It's cool, man."

"Don't you need--..." then Dean's arm was gone and Sam didn't quite know what to do about that. He paused, some memory coming through the haze, blurry and malformed.

"...I should have noticed." He looked up, clear in his sudden knowledge. "I was so busy, I didn't even notice he was...using you." 

Dean didn't look away. He didn't hide his face. The pain was written there, brow creased with regret and an intense need for Sam to understand him without awkward explanations and misunderstandings that cut both ways.

"Wasn't like that, Sammy. He told you straight. I volunteered."

Sam looked up at Dean, uncomprehending. His head tilted to the side, as if he could see the answer through some other angle.

"...I don't understand," he finally admitted, distress coming through. "Why?" And then, hurt. None of this would have happened if Dean hadn't been there. 

"You're gonna die, man. You're gonna _end_." Dean's throat tightened seeing the wounded way his brother's face fell. "You think I can just stand by and let that happen? Yeah, Chris did somethin' real stupid and yeah, Pierce blackmailed me to get me to sit and hear him out...but he asked me to give you my soul and I figured...fuck'em. If I could really do that, then I beat 'em."

Something worse than the shock washed through Sam's body, something heavy and oily, guilty in his stomach.

"God, Dean...No. _No_." Sam needed to stand up. He did so and surprised himself by not falling over. He covered his eyes with one bandaged hand, ignoring his need for sight as he began to pace aimlessly. "No, you can't do that. I _have_ to end. That's...it's gotta be that way. It's supposed to be that way. It's right. It's justice. I killed your little brother...don't you--...I killed your brother. You're not supposed to... _l-love_ me. How can you even _forgive_ me? I killed him...I killed him." It was unclear who he was talking about. He stopped walking, miraculously, before he walked into a wall and fell down on his ass. His hand moved down to his mouth.

Dean's eyes followed Sam as he paced and he swallowed back the emotions welling up to deny all Sam's words, because that wouldn't be true and it wouldn't be fair.

"You killed my brother." Those words came cold. Pitiless. "My mom died because of you. She died horrible." Dean knew those things. He'd reckoned with those things on his own terms. "Mom died and she wiped you clean. Mom gave you a chance. Don't fucking _spit_ on that with this martyr _bull_ shit." He sucked in a shaky breath and lowered his voice, too close to yelling. "She called you her son in Lawrence. She made you, Sam. I made you. And Dad, he did, too." He wanted to yell at Sam about it, he wanted to be mad, but he didn't and maybe he was, but not the way Sam wanted him to be. "Don't tell me how we're _supposed_ to be feelin' about you. Don't tell me what you 'did' to this family. You're a part of this family, too."

"I don't want to take any more from you!" Sam yelled suddenly, lowering his hand and flinging his arms wide, looking at Dean with wide, desperate eyes. "I _can't_. Dean it's _killing me_."

Dean matched Sam for volume, glaring him down, daring him to keep on that track.

"So you can just go on doin' _whatever_ you want like it wouldn' _kill_ me to lose you?" Dean bit back his anger, shook it off and it was miserable to say more, the words ripped out of a sore place inside him, healing since Sam first kissed him, but not healed. "You're my whole life, Sam. _You_. Since Dad handed you to me, durin' that fire...Minute you came in the world. Idea of you endin'..."

Sam's stomach felt sick and heavy with guilt and he gave a helpless shrug.

"What do we do then?" The younger man had a pale, defeated smile on his lips. "Two of us here and one soul between us and neither of us willing to be the one left behind."

Dean laughed weak, looking out the window, across the farmyard at the trees. He finally spoke again.

"...we don't got a whole lot of time to decide." Set on fire on a ceiling. Combusting like he'd been pumped full of kerosene. A part of him had always figured he might go that way, but he didn't know if Sam would survive it sane. "Little bastard knew the whole time." He thought if they'd just pushed Chris harder, been a little meaner, maybe, just broken a few fingers, they might've had more time.

The color drained from Sam’s face, leaving only pallor. Somehow that piece of information had gotten lost in all the other world-altering events that had occurred in the last five minutes.

Five minutes. Why did everything always have to change so fast?

"Oh god," Sam felt like all his blood was pooling in strange places, like his feet and head. "Oh fuck..." He looked wild eyed and it was clear that it would be the last thing that Sam could take. Sometimes it felt like he was dragging himself over the lowest ground, barely able to move but somehow still going. This would stop him. He would be alone and he knew he would let himself go -- he would let himself remember if he lost Dean, just so that he could be something Else, something Other, and not have to go through that grief. 

If Dean burned up on the ceiling, burned up over his bed like the others had, staring down at him, Sam wouldn't get up. He'd let everything burn down around him.

"Sam." Dean tried to get his attention focused outwards. "Sammy. I know you've had a shit day, but we gotta deal with this." Just the perfect thing to say. Like he needed to freak Sam out anymore. "This is good, Sam. We can use this. Means we know where he's gonna be in two months."

Sam laughed and choked on it.

"Good? Dean. Do you have any idea, _any_ , what it's like to be afraid of sleeping?" He lifted his still faintly shaking hands, running the tips of his fingers over his face. "There's...blood, on my face and then...heat and I know. I know it's happening again. And again. And again. And it's never going to stop until he breaks me, until he _makes_ me remember all these things I don't want to see." His fingers stopped at his chin, eyes shut. "Remember this...person I don't want to be. I'm afraid. I'm so afraid." He shook his head, willfully. "I'm going to have a vision. It's coming and I'm going to see it. I'll see you up there and watch you burn."

"Maybe you will, but it's not gonna be me. You have those visions 'cause you can _change_ 'em." Dean watched Sam breaking down and he didn't know if should go to him or let him have his space. "I know it's been bad for you since Jess. I'm not gonna pretend I know how bad. I know your feet get kicked out from under you every time you get up. And I'm not gonna lie and say I'm not scared, because I promised you more than that." He slid off the bed, approached Sam, because he needed the comfort himself and he only hoped Sam'd let them share it. "But this is what we came here, for. We came here to get a heads up and we found it." He put his hands steady on Sam's shoulders, jaw firm -- grim. "I don't wanna freak you out anymore than you're freaked out already, but November second, either way, it's gonna end. So we gotta use that, man. And you can do this. We only got a little more to go."

“November second, are you sure…” Sam didn’t want to hear the truth. He wanted more time than that. “He said my _birthday_ , not--…”

“Your birthday. The day you came over.” Dean drew him in. He held him closer.

Sam didn't back up, didn't shirk away from Dean's hands. He tensed, but began to relax a little. He was disoriented and in shock. It was clear from his speech patterns that he didn't know exactly what was going on -- whether he was in the now or whether he was about to see Dean get dragged up a wall. His body was giving him a fight or flight response and neither options were available, leaving him like a caged animal, pacing and shifting. 

Dean's touch settled him and after a moment he moved his head, lifting one of his hands to move Dean's hand up from his shoulder, over the side of his neck, to his face, where he could press his cheek to the rough palm, lips to the wrist. Dean's pulse was weak and sluggish with blood loss and Sam drew him in, close to him.

It wasn't like there wasn't more to be said. It wasn't like everything they had brought up had even been properly covered. Now wasn't the time, though. 

Even if time was beginning to run out.

There wasn't time to recover. They didn't have the luxury of a month up in Maine to work through the swiftly altering landscape of their lives.

\----

Sam stood in the middle of the attic, looking down at the farmer's wife, her stomach protruded and her hair matted and greasy. His teeth were grinding together, but he schooled his reaction. He had the benefit of still being in shock from what happened earlier. It was easier to school your emotions when your body decided to deprive you of most of them.

"...get her cleaned up. Then take her to the battered women's shelter in Kindersley. No one is to harm her in any way." Or, at least, harm her anymore than she already had been.

"How are we supposed to know how the baby turns out?" One of the girls, Emeline, asked with her head ducked, deferring, apprehensive of both releasing and not releasing the woman. Her own stomach curved with a pregnant paunch beneath her dark wash jeans.

"You won't," Sam responded, looking over at her, glancing down at her belly. "But in the meantime, someone's going to explain to me what's going on here."

Two of the demons helped the frightened woman to her feet, saying soothing things, but she was wild eyed and disbelieving, their torment too close a memory. Dean straightened from where he stood in the background, slapped them off her and slung the woman's arm over his shoulder, speaking low in that smooth talking voice and she was shaking, but she began to listen. He gave Sam a look and decided to handle it himself. The demons were afraid of Sam, for now, but it wasn't like that was a motivation to depend on.

"We're bridgin' th' gap," a raggedy demon skulking slumped down and sitting against the wall, watching Dean help their breeder down the attic ladder spoke up for them all. "We gotta bridge th' gap, or we'll die in these bodies."

Sam frowned, but didn't let his usual temper rule him. 

"...No more humans. You do what you want with yourselves, but no one touches another human. Got it?"

"What is it you _do_ , anyway?" Beatrice's boyfriend asked, picking up the woman's filthy bedding. Unlike some of them, he sounded affable, not completely cowed by his leader's bloody demise.

Sam remembered his father teaching him to lie when he was small. Most parents tell their children never to lie, but like everything else with the Winchesters, everything was switched around, opposite. Abnormal. Dean had given him tips, ways to smile or shift to make himself look more convincing. Sam turned out to be even better at it than his brother, after a time. He played enough truth into his ruse that people thought he was genuine.

"Now?" Sam asked taking only a single step to crowd the other man's space, even when they weren't close. He was a big guy and most of the time he slouched, but now he was standing at his full height. "Whatever the hell I want to." He didn't have it in him to kill another one. He was barely holding up after Pierce. But he was angry and all he had to do was play the anger into the lie until it looked murderous and that was enough.

The other demon backed off a step, smiling, _no harm no foul_ , but hunching down between his shoulders a little.

"Sounds about right."

Sam watched them clean out the attic and didn't say much.

' _Don't give away more than you have to_ ,' John had said. ' _The more you give, the more you can get caught on. Keep it simple. Keep it plain. If it's complex, people'll get suspicious._ '

Sam let his presence do his talking.

Downstairs, Dean sat the woman down on the toilet seat and washed her face, her arms and her legs with a damp cloth while she stared at the bathroom tiles, too in shock to cry. He felt a strange guilt in his stomach, as if he'd played his own part in her degradation -- maybe he had, not asking questions, not sticking to his morals...helping a demon. He felt a strange guilt, because he couldn't say he wouldn't have made the same deal if he knew she was there all along. 

She felt like another casualty of all the things he'd do for his lover, his little brother. A part of him still said ‘ _He's worth it_ ’.

He drove her to the battered women's shelter, a long drive in silence. He didn't speak, or turn on the radio and she never cried, or made a sound. When she got out of the car, she looked at him once, as if trying to see him through a dense fog and then she stepped away from the blue sedan, her gaze numb and her hand on her swollen stomach.

"I'm sorry," he told her back, raised his voice from where he stood by the passenger side door, as she walked into the building without looking back. He cursed and slammed it shut.

It was a long drive _back_ in silence. He still didn't turn on the radio.

Sam was waiting on the porch when Dean got back, looking like he hadn't spent the day doing hard labor, like he hadn't been in a fight for his life, where he hadn't viciously murdered something like a human being. Between the lines that only Dean knew how to read, Sam looked tired.

The younger of the Winchesters jerked his head towards one of the back fields and began walking in that direction. They moved until they were on a rise far from the house, where they could see easily in any direction and sound would carry to them, but not the other way around.

"Wasn't good," Dean told him, but that was all he said. Sam had seen the woman, himself.

"With what she's been through? I'm not surprised." Sam paced the small hill, hands on his hips. "We're going to have to go. Move. Even if she doesn't talk, they're going to identify her. They'll send people here. And I don't want to see a bunch of innocent people slaughtered by this group." He turned around to his side, looking back over at Dean. "We have to...I think...We need to get rid of the demons, don't we? I don't mean just this group. All of them. They're going to hurt people. They're going to do whatever the demon wants them to."

"You've seen what I've seen, Sam. Except for the limited warranty, these guys struck gold." His eyes were on the farmhouse, most of its windows dark beneath the afternoon sun. Human enough that nature didn't reject them, demon enough to defy it. Tough, resourceful and combat trained...Dean was about the best humanity had to offer, but he knew he couldn't go one on one with all but a few of that nest down the hill.

"They still sleep," Sam said, with finality and he swallowed, let the wind carry over the fields for a moment as that sunk in. Then he set to pacing again. "We were in...fuck, where was it...Nevada, when Chris picked up on this group, right? That's half a continent away. And this was the closest one. That means there have to be limited groups. Maybe two per continent? God knows there are more hunters around than that. So we leak the info. We get in contact with Dad, with Bobby, with...every god damned hunter out there. Every one. They'll know more. The ones down in Mexico, in Europe, India. We get those hunters the best intelligence we can and we have to hope that as a group they can start taking them down." Sam's mind was working now, in the same way it did on a hunt, working through scenarios and possibilities.

Dean exhaled a slow breath, felt naked for the pistol he wasn't carrying, crisp fall wind dry on his skin and he squinted against the sunlight.

"It's gonna be bloody."

Sam nodded, firmly.

"I know...But we gotta get this group. Take all but one, get what we can about the other groups from him…or her." He didn't _want_ to. He didn't _like_ the thought, but he felt a resolve build in him, whatever he could do to protect his brother like his brother had protected him.

There was some sense of relief to be taken from the knowledge that these things were human in body only.

Dean just hoped they didn't have some kind of _bat_ signal, some kind of panic button they could hit and warn all the others. He figured it was less a matter of if they thought of it and more a matter of capability.

"So, we get these guys moving and we call Dad." 

Sam nodded again, walking back to his brother. He reached one of his gauze wrapped hands and put it to Dean's cheek. He didn't smile, because he couldn't, not now, not yet, but he had a look of firm assurance.

"We're gonna get through this. I'm _not_ letting you burn up on any ceiling.” He let out a slow breath. “You and me, big brother."

Dean smiled for both of them, lopsided and not quite a smirk. They were both torn up, Sam worse but Dean weaker. Dean didn't count them out, though, as long as they were shambling along together.

"That's what I wanna hear."

\----

Moving the demons out was as tricky as expected. They didn't want to go and they were uncertain following Sam, who they knew didn't remember and who, therefore, they were pretty sure wasn't following _His_ orders, or anything like them. But their basic survival instincts overruled that and they did as Sam said. They packed up the things they wanted to keep, loading up the cars as Dean and Sam took gas from the turbines and poured it around the house, working from the attic down.

Dean had burned a lot of things in his career and sitting on the hood of the Mazda watching the house burn, he had to congratulate himself on a fire to be proud of. Backdrafts blew the windows out three separate times, glass sparkling in crystalline showers onto the front lawn while flame licked up the walls, curling the paint. It fell off in glowing cinders. No house fire could ever be fully divorced from that early memory: his dad holding him sitting on the Impala (God rest her soul) in the dark, the sound of sirens and his mother missing (God rest hers, too) -- but a job done thorough was a job to be proud of.

There was nowhere to drive but south, because that was where the hunters Dean and Sam knew where and also where their _guns_ were. Not that they'd be the best way to silently take out each of the demons, but it’d still be nice to have the extra weaponry around.

The other demons piled into their cars, packing each car until it was full and leaving the other vehicles -- they didn't need a fourteen car convoy going down the highway. It just made it too easy for one of them to run off. 

Sam and Dean still kept the Mazda to themselves.

They crossed the border with ease, the trunks looking empty to the officers' eyes, the cars appearing to only be carrying one or two passengers. Dean didn't make the obvious comment that the demons were kind of useful to have around. Chris had been useful on hunts and Chris had crawled out of the same slime. Dean charged his cell phone in the car’s cigarette lighter turned DC power outlet.

They stopped near the motel they'd stayed at before and Dean trumped into the woods to retrieve their weaponry while Sam watched his brethren meander on the side of the road.

After that, there wasn't any more avoiding it. They had to call Dad.

They called on the road, in the car, heading to one of Montana's numerous and secluded campsites. They'd recoup there, Sam told the demons and make their plans for a long term home.

Dean made the call, one hand on the steering wheel, ran his tongue apprehensively over his lips as he the road ahead peeling by through rugged miles of farmland cradled in the swelling foothills of the Rockies.

"Eventually I'm just going to have to cuff you upside the head for all these disappearing acts, boy," John said when he picked up, his tone gravelly and slow, accompanied by a sigh. Only Dean would recognize it as a sigh of relief.

Dean smiled against the receiver.

"That'll just encourage me, sir," he told him in a voice that said _unfortunately_. 

John let out a single huff that was something like a grunt of laughter, but not quite.

"Knew you'd be a problem child, eventually," his father said. Only they could make their life into humor like that. They were used to things being fucked up. "So. Did you find anything good on this mission a’ yours?"

"These kids, their plans and where the demon's gonna be in about two months." Dean wasn't smug, but he was satisfied. It felt good to be the one calling John with the information. Hell, it felt _awesome_.

"Not bad," John responded. "Wanna let me in on all that?"

Dean started talking and it was a long conversation. Sometime during it he slid his hand across the gear shift median, let it rest on Sam's thigh, companionable, so he didn't feel so completely by himself with John's always-piercing questioning, the phone held between his shoulder and his ear.

Sam's hand moved over Dean's, sliding over the back of it, until his long fingers fell between his brother's and he grasped his hand in companionable silence.

John's breath stilted a little when Dean told him that in two months there was a very good possibility that he would die like his mother did. 

"Jesus, Dean...Going into a nest'a demons like that..." There was a pause, the one John took before he went into a grand chastisement, but he held off. "You know you gotta get rid of them...You'll leave bodies. You'll have t'find a way to make sure they aren't found."

"Two of us can't do these guys, Dad." Dean’s father was a roughneck, pride egging him to bite off more than he could chew, but he had raised Dean to recognize his limits and Dean wasn't ashamed to admit them. "It's gonna take more than some handguns and rocksalt."

"Sounds like you have a plan.”

"It's Sammy's plan. I'm gonna let him explain it." Dean glanced at Sam, checked to make sure that was okay, that he didn't have to backpedal. Dean couldn't sell it with the same conviction.

Sam lifted his free hand, having to twist a little to take the phone, as the hand closest to Dean was still wound with the hand on his thigh and he wasn't going to move it.

"Hey, Dad," he said, lifting the phone to his ear.

"Sam. It's good to hear you," John said. Not ' _Sammy_ ', not ' _son_ ' and Sam knew it would probably never be those things again. He could tell in the way his father spoke that he loved him as much as he loved him before, as much as he did the day he told him to leave and never come back. Sam understood that his father needed to distance himself, that he was trying to remember every time he spoke to Sam that Sam had murdered his second born.

Honestly, Sam was glad that at least someone did. The real Sam deserved that.

"...look," Sam had to clear his throat, swallowing down the heavy emotion. "This is just one group. There are more. As far as I can tell, they could be...world wide. I know hunters don't usually work together, but--...Dad, this is war. They have an army, Dad. And they're strong. They can't be exorcised. They're immune to hallowed ground. Silver doesn't hurt them unless they have an _allergy_ and they won't flinch at the name of the Christian god, Latin or otherwise."

"Getting more'n a few hunters together for anything is difficult, Sam. Especially with Jim Murphy dead. He was the only one we listened to. God knows I'm not well liked."

"This demon is going to cause _serious_ damage if we don't do something. They're after man's _immortal soul_ , for chrissake. They'll steal it, if they have the chance, and I think then we’re gonna see a lot more of them. We're going to need every hunter who will listen and not just here in America. This isn't going to work if there's some rogue group still functioning out in Siberia."

Dean kept the car on the road with his knee, slid his shirt up over his stomach and gave Sam's thigh a squeeze, got his attention and tapped his blunt index finger against the tattoo, with its open eye staring. He wagged his brow -- meaningfully, not flirtatiously.

Sam nodded once, looking over at the eye tattooed around Dean's navel.

"There's more. They may be human, but they've got powers just like any demon. As far as we can tell, they pretty much all have mind reading and telekinesis. There's not much to be done about the telekinesis, but we did a...quasi-ritual on Dean, to keep them out of his head and it seems to have worked. Any hunter going after these kids is gonna have to go through that."

"That bad?" John queried, but it sounded like he knew it already.

"I honestly think they have both the will and ability to take someone down without doing a thing. I've seen them controlling people--...We did what we could for those people, but mostly, we were too late."

After that there was a long pause of silence besides the white noise of the phone line. Sam knew his father was thinking things over, probably going over possibilities and angles that Sam hadn't even thought of yet.

"...alright. Give me time," John finally agreed.

"Okay," Sam swallowed. "We'll be in touch."

"So, what?" Dean asked, able to make out John’s words from across the divide. "We just keep 'em busy?"

Sam nodded, letting out a breath as he flipped the phone shut.

"Yeah...pretty much. Keep them out of the way of people."

"Have theme days. Teach 'em macramé. Throw in some...team buildin’ rope courses." Dean patted Sam's thigh, took his phone back and slid it back it in the pocket of his leather coat.

"Great," Sam snorted with a half smile. "Sounds like this'll be easy, then."

\----

They rolled into the campground ten after six and paid for the sites with cash Beatrice had pulled from the bank on the drive south, earned from the crops. They'd stocked up on gas station food, canned beans and Spam and cheap American beer and self-heating bottles of soup. There were bathrooms and there were showers in a concrete building with a red tin roof, the floor dingy and tiles grimy, the stalls cramped and the hot water heater insufficient. The demons griped and groaned. Dean walked proud, taking one of the last showers, shaking off the chill water, invigorated and grinning wet in the cold, knocking back a Budweiser and biting a square of hard, uncooked ramen noodles with a bastardly grin on his face.

He sang a different tune in the Mazda, bitching his fingers were turning purple and the _Impala_ 's heater had been like crawling into a sleeping bag with a thick Latina woman and this _fucking thing_ was a _piece of crap_ , huddled down in the bucket seat in three layers of clothes with his winter jacket spread over him.

"C'mon, man...It's not even that cold out. We've been in way worse." Sam reached out anyhow, arms tugging his brother over to him, leaning his bundled form against his chest, long arms coming around Dean's shoulders. The fact that Dean was still recovering from blood loss didn't really help.

Dean grunted disagreeably. Hypothermia was hypothermia! Whether you'd been trekking through the snow or wet from water that had never been warm and underdressed in the fall air for three hours, showing off brass balls that had mysteriously dissolved.

He didn't say that. Sam would just say something intelligent and reasonable like, _Maybe you should have put your coat on_ and Dean wanted to be self righteous and persecuted and grumpy (in Sam's arms).

It had been forever since they'd just been alone and together.

Sam leaned back against one of the back doors of the car, dragging Dean's body with him, until his older brother was half laid out over his chest. He let out a slow breath, watching it make a little puff of grey mist in the air and he had to admit it was a little bit chilly. Montana was in the middle of an early cold snap.

He rested one broad, bandaged hand on the side of Dean's head.

Dean smirked, listening to Sam's heart thumping underneath his ear and the rumble of the Mazda's engine as it struggled to crank out air anywhere above seventy degrees.

He thought of a time in Nebraska, him afraid for his life and his heart giving out and Sam scared, but firm and determined, not sleeping until he saved his life. Sam sitting behind him on a hotel bed, arms wrapped around his body. Sam riding his erection, controlling the pace and position of their sex. Sam angry-fierce, ferocious, beating Pierce until he stopped moving, because he had been hurt. Sam's big hand covering his, their fingers laced together. Sam holding him now, a sturdy body to lie on.

Sam wasn't the kid Dean remembered, the kid Dean had still seen in him eighteen and angry, or twenty-two and grousing about anything that stood between him and an immediate revenge.

Like so many other things about Sam, Dean thought that just a little turned him on. He closed his eyes against Sam's chest, in no real particular hurry to be anywhere but lying on Sam's broad body.

"...you feelin' sexy...?"

"Cold, surrounded by things that'd kill us soon as look at us, me with flesh wounds and you with blood loss and cramped in the back of a car? Yeah...Totally sexy," Sam responded and he kissed the crown of Dean's head with a small smile. Not like they hadn't conquered the back seat of the Mazda before. "Why? You got ideas?"

Dean sighed a long sigh against Sam's hoodie, letting the air escape slowly from his lungs. When he put it like _that_...No. Wait. Yep. Dean was still good to go. He nuzzled his face a little deeper against Sam's shirt, Sam's palm and his fingers warming the whole other side of his face.

"...kinda got this one idea..."

"Yeah...?" Sam queried. Despite his words, it was easier in here. The four walls of the car shutting out everything but the cold, the strange world they'd walked into that never seemed to give them a break. Dean was a warm weight on his chest, their words lazy. There was a kind of safety here, like this.

Dean smacked his lips, real lazy, weighing the effort of moving (even for sex) against sleeping just like this. His brow knit and he blinked his grogginess away, something falling into place half-unexpected inside him that woke him up a little.

"...I think I wanna get under you."

"Under me?"

"Don't be a virgin, Sammy," Dean groused, like that was some kind of zinger, frowning. He inhaled deep and now his body, stiff with cold, was showing the beginnings of interest, his pulse picking up sluggishly. "I wanna give it up."

"...oh," Sam said, as if he never expected such an offer, or suggestion. Dean was sort of...well. Sam couldn't really envision his brother taking it from _anyone_ and he had never complained about it, so while the concept (or _fantasy_ ) occurred to him, the possibility of it ever actually happening hadn’t. The power dynamic in their relationship had never been questioned -- they pranked and poked and sometimes fought, but they'd never had sibling rivalry like that and Sam was just _used_ to following Dean.

Didn't mean he didn't like the idea, now that it was out on the table.

"Okay," Sam said and he moved his hand from the side of Dean's head, shifting him until he could pull his brother up to him by the back of his neck, pressing their lips together.

Dean didn't kiss him with his usual fervor. Not until his body warmed up -- his metabolism fighting a hard battle against the chill sunk deep under his skin. He touched Sam's cheek with cold fingers, at first a shock on Sam's skin, he cupped the back of Sam's head and clutched his fist in Sam's hoodie and, gradually, their body temperatures began to even out and Dean was kissing him bolder.

When Dean's tongue pressed into his mouth, Sam began to sit up, pushing them until they were upright, sitting on either side of the Mazda's backseat. Sam's hands moved down to Dean's waist, grasping the material there.

Dean pushed the blue winter jacket down on top of their bags on the floorboard and shrugged his leather jacket off his shoulders, tugging it off his left arm, off his right. He paused to breath around Sam's kiss, against Sam's lips and then their mouths were hungry, noses bumping and Dean gripped the wings of his button up shirt and stripped that off his arms, as well, until only the damp t-shirt clung to his skin.

"Jesus, Dean..." Sam muttered, fingers against that damp cloth. "No wonder you were cold..." He moved to take it off, to get the heat sucking moisture off his brother's skin before he caught pneumonia or something. He tugged it up, over Dean's head and let his hands come to rest on his shoulders, thumbs tracing the ends of his sibling's collarbone.

"Figured it'd dry," Dean shrugged -- being a man about it ( _You know. Eventually._ ). He shivered as Sam's fingers traced over his skin, the slowly-warming air still cool on that exposed skin.

Sam snorted and then leaned back, removing his own layers, now feeling some concern and once he had his hoodie and undershirt off, he pulled Dean in again, more for body heat than anything else, at least for the moment. 

Dean didn't complain. Right now, he wasn't interested in complaining about anything that got him closer to Sam's body. He hadn't counted the days since they last had sex, but it added up to _too long_. His hands were on Sam's body, careful of the bruises and the deeper injury in his back, but adventurous as he sucked on Sam's lower lip, nipped his jaw and lapped his way into his mouth, kissed him deep and hot and slow, only just starting to really think about what he was asking for.

It was difficult for Sam to do much with his hands wrapped up like a mummy's, but he tried his best. Even his palms had gotten torn up on the floorboards, so when he touched Dean, it was mostly, if not all, gauze and no skin. 

They always seemed to be doing this when they were injured. Sam remembered clearly that first time, in the motel room, with a bullet wound in his shoulder and his father's words in his head.

But Dean's tongue was talking him into it without words. Sam shut his eyes and moaned, just leaning into it and enjoying what his brother had to offer him.

That familiar ache pooled between Dean's thighs, pulsing into his cock. He felt it stiffening beneath the zipper of his jeans, sensitive skin pressed against the rough fabric. He could taste his own anticipation, gripped by the idea of something he had never tried and something he could give Sam from his body that didn't come used. 

Bandaged hands moved over Dean's biceps, cloth grazing over skin. It was irritating. Sam couldn't feel him. God knew this wasn't the best situation anyways, not with where they were, what was going on. Not with who they were. 

But Sam lowered his hands, bruised and bloodied as they were, to Dean's thighs and with one strong jerk he tugged Dean forward as he moved towards him, until Dean's legs were on either side of Sam and Sam was resting intimately between his brother's thighs. Their mouths never parted.

Dean shuddered involuntary at the close contact, at the sudden vulnerability and the promise implicit. Their chests brushed together and Dean rolled his body, rubbing skin on skin in one drawn out undulation of muscle and flesh, letting Sam feel him close and personal. Sam's touch itched on his skin and his hungry kisses begged for it.

Sam's tongue ran over Dean's lower lip and the side of his mouth as he drew back a little, looking at his brother with a small smile. He lifted one hand from Dean's leg, to trace the line of his jaw. His eyes followed all the contours of the face he knew so well, knew since he was born into this human body, that night of the fire. He softened.

"Where's the lube?" They hadn't done anything in so long, Sam'd lost track. Besides, Dean was usually the one who had it.

"In my bag," Dean murmured, a little breathless. It was still Vaseline, down to the bottom of the bottle. He checked out the impressive bulge forming in Sam's pants, pressing against that tight heat between his own legs. "Yuh-hunh... _Please_ lets lube that thing up."

Sam moved his hand from Dean's jaw to the side of his head and leaned in to kiss next to his ear on the other side of his face. 

"We'll go slow," Sam assured, before drawing back. He paused before opening the door, before letting a taste of the world outside back into his mouth, but Dean's bag was in the trunk. He got out, feet bare on the leaves and he walked around to the trunk, opening it up and ferreting around until he could return with the bottle, grabbing the blankets they kept for this kind of unexpected campout, too and getting back into the relative warmth of the car. He shut the door behind him and let out a grateful breath.

Dean was waiting for him, slouched back against the middle seat, arm stretched out along the back. He’d turned off the Mazda’s engine, because he was planning to get a lot warmer and he knew there’d come a point real soon where he wouldn’t want to move. His eyes raked Sam's body and he raised one brow, grinning lopsided, suggestive. It was a hard time to be playful. A hard time to be anything but somber. Dean knew if he didn't push it, they'd just be somber all the time.

There was a feeling like the world was coming to an end -- and hell, it might well have been. The road they were traveling could very well run out and there was only so much they could do about it this time. 

There was a feeling, like they might as well enjoy it while they could.

Sam half crouched in the Mazda, one knee on the back seat, the leaned against the median between the bucket seats, with his foot on the floor. He set the lube on the median and the blankets on the floor, reaching forward to carefully undo Dean's pants. He hissed when one of his injured fingers caught on the hard button, used to using a fingernail that was no longer there.

"...can you?" he asked, moving back a little, looking apologetic.

"‘course," Dean told him, sliding his arm off the back of the seat and unbuttoning his jeans, pulling the zipper down, relieved of that too-cramped feeling. He pushed his body off the seat and slid his pants down over his hips, over his thighs. He kicked his sneakers off and pushed his pants off with his feet. Then there was only socks and he pulled his legs up into the seat to peel those off gracelessly, comfortable with his nudity.

Sam moved around in their cramped space, until Dean had shifted out of all of his clothing and Sam rested his hand on his older brother's knees. He moved in between them, hands moving up the outsides of Dean's thighs, over his hips, to rest against the small of his back, leaving Sam's cheek against his brother's belly in some strange embrace, warm and sexual. He ducked his head after a moment, nose brushing the base of Dean's erection and then his lips, parting them and pressing his tongue against the hot skin.

Dean groaned his satisfaction, hand drifting absent to stroke Sam's wild hair. It was a sensitive, defenseless part of his body, with his balls, more delicate yet, close underneath, so that he felt more naked than he was -- more naked than when Sam was going down from the top. Sam was holding him steady and safe and even with demons outside the doors, he could let himself begin to relax.

Sam's lips traced up him slowly, never really taking him into his mouth, but teasing the flesh until it was as stiff as it could be, then merely enjoying the trust inherent in such a tight and intimate tangling of bodies, letting Dean squirm as he garnished attention on his very vulnerable testicles.

He drew back eventually, though, lowering his hands to his own pants. He took a few long seconds, very carefully this time when using the pad of his thumb to flick open his pants, then unzip them. He shifted out of them, removing his boxers at the same time, strangling a small noise in his throat when his erection was no longer restrained.

Dean swallowed watching Sam's slow undressing, not even meant to tease, his lips wet from kissing but his mouth dry. There was a fear involved with this. He wasn't afraid of Sam hurting him, not physically, but he had the sense that inviting Sam into his body would breach a certain, last barrier. It would admit something he couldn't exactly put his finger on into their relationship. Whatever it was, even if it spooked him, he knew he wanted it. His eyes traced the length of Sam's cock, hanging heavy between Sam's legs and if his erection could have gotten any harder, the jolt of arousal shooting through his hips and the anticipant clench of his thighs would have thickened it.

Sam had a little trouble manipulating his long legs inside the car and the last part of getting his pants off went a little more gracelessly than the first, but he managed to discard them, after a moment, with a sheepish smile. 

He crawled up between his brother's legs again, as accustomed to that space now as he was any other and kissed Dean on the mouth.

"How do you wanna do this?"

Dean shivered as the head Sam's erection brushed his skin.

They were both big men. The back seat of a little Mazda sedan wasn't designed with two big men trying for intercourse in mind. (Dean was of the opinion that all cars should be designed with the potential for backseat sex of every possible combination. Just because he had no interest in fucking a professional wrestler didn't mean a professional wrestler shouldn't be able to bone him in the back of every car.)

"...never thought I'd take it from a guy on my back." He smirked a little. There was something about the missionary position that was so...subordinate. He wasn't ruling that out. Sam was between his legs right now and the possibility was as real as their flushed dicks between them.

"You could...be on your knees," Sam thought about it and though he wasn't making it _overt_ , he wanted to make this good for Dean. He was worrying over it a little, maybe, because Sam was the kind of guy that wanted things like this to be special, even if it only made Dean roll his eyes. "Or I could...sit." Dean'd probably bang his head on the ceiling like that though.

Dean ran a rough thumb over Sam's cheekbone, looked at him keen.

"What do you want?" He didn't have that same concern. His body was telling him it wanted Sam inside him and it didn't have to be special, or slow. Stars didn't have to fall from the sky at the heat of their love. Seriously. He wanted Sam to do him. It could be rough and awkward, what he cared.

"I guess...on your back,” Sam said. He'd be able to see Dean's face like that. He leaned in, moving his head down to kiss the side of his brother's neck.

Dean spread his legs a little further, inviting, approving, foot slipping on the edge of the seat. He had to wonder to himself if it was going to hurt. He knew from experience most things hurt _good_ during sex, like hickeys, but Sam's _girth_ was substantially more than his own in certain, pertinent areas. It wasn't like a chick with a hymen to break. He knew from experience it shouldn't bleed. 

He wasn't a really easily intimidated man, but Sam's cock was intimidating. He'd thought about it inside him before. He'd wondered. But he hadn't thrown an invitational and that pucker of flesh between his legs seemed very small.

He stretched his neck back a little and he let Sam kiss his body like he wanted.

Sam took his time, lips against his brother's neck, then collarbone. His hands eased over Dean's chest and when he was satisfied, he reached back for the bottle on the median and handed it to Dean. He couldn't put the stuff on himself -- not with his bandages.

Dean popped the lid off with a twist of his hand and sat it on the back of the car seat. He slid two fingers into the viscous, oily stuff, scooping out a dollop and he let the bottle rest on his quivery stomach. He smeared the jelly along the shaft of Sam's cock and closed his hand around it, spreading it thick and even, breath and pulse increasing, still apprehensive as Sam moaned in appreciation, but feeling impatient. He flicked another finger of jelly out of the translucent bottle and slipped his fingers down between his legs, massaging surprisingly sensitive skin that had gotten very little attention in all their months of play. He sucked air through his teeth, winching a little, startled by how readily his body responded.

Sam watched his brother, letting himself breath again once Dean’s hand was off the heat of his erection. He reached up and closed the lube, putting it in the front seat, where it wouldn't get in the way. He shifted around with his brother, the movements awkward with the lack of space and the hardened flesh between their legs, but Sam got up on to the seat, on his knees. He moved Dean's legs to either side of himself, holding his thighs at the sides of his waist.

"You good?" Sam asked, hands shifting down to the sides of Dean's hips.

"I haven't convinced myself that'll fit in my body," Dean admitted, wry and husky, leaning against the door, his elbow braced on the arm rest and a hand clutching the top ridge of the backseat. He smiled, cocksure, at his brother. "...I figure it'll do the convincin' for me."

"It doesn't hurt as much as you think it will," Sam reassured. "Not like a stab wound or something, anyways." Their perspectives on pain really were warped. He smiled a bit, one hand smoothing over the ridges of Dean's abdomen, pausing for a moment before drawing himself back and shifting himself around until he found where he was supposed to be. He pushed himself in, crown breaching Dean's body.

Dean's breath hitched and his first impression was one of _This is really happening_. It wasn't pain, but it was feeling _like_ pain, an intrusion between his hips and his body telling him something had forced its way inside him that should probably _not_ be there and that it was, in fact, _large_.

"Whoa," he breathed and his eyes traveled down to where their bodies had joined, dim lit from the streetlight at the edge of the road behind them.

"You alright?" Sam continued to press forward, simply out of the knowledge that Dean wouldn't want him to stop. 

A tremor shook Dean's body. Sam sliding into his body felt like fireworks detonating in tiny bursts all through that needy flesh and he felt himself unraveling.

"Oh _hell_ yeah," he agreed breathless and his eyes squeezed shut. In a second moment, he knew why he wanted Sam inside him, under his skin, solid and thick. He surrendered, tension seeping out of his limbs. Every day since Jessica died, every day with Sam in the car beside him, sparing those rare times apart, Dean had been thinking about how to take care of him, how to protect him and ease the burdens fate and Sam’s own forgotten choices had placed on him. Sam was sinking inside him, aware and in control and for a minute Dean stopped worrying and just a little more, just a little further and he thought he could let something give that never gave.

Sam's arms fell, taking advantage of Dean's arched back to fold under the small of it, half embracing him, half holding him up, cock moving even deeper in to the recesses of his brother's body, kept going until he could go no more and their hips were flush. Sam looked down at him, his body arched such that it was easiest to kiss Dean's sternum, so he did just that, then pressed the flat of his tongue to it. He looked up and Dean looked good, felt good.

Sam felt strong, supporting the body that had always supported him and he felt he _should_ be strong, that he had to be. Despite their current positions, he felt filled, all the way through, with a need to protect, to find their way out of this mess together.

Dean could remember _so turned on his body shook_ , but he was a quivering heap for this shit, a cold wave of fear rolling through his body -- fear of really, finally trusting someone after so long, conceding that final backwards step. And Sam was bigger than he imagined inside him. The sensation was strange and intense -- maybe bad, maybe not. He couldn't feel Sam within him, not the way he thought he would, but he felt filled up ( _fulfilled_ ). Every little movement of his body, the slightest flinch and he came up against that gigantic thing, smooth and hard and buried inside him. Every little movement of his body and his cock jumped and pleasure spilled out through his hips. Every panting breath shifted his body just enough to drop that intrusion back into the center of his awareness. 

And Sam hadn't even started moving yet.

When Sam did start moving, it was slow. Dean was tight and hot and the lube made the motion almost frictionless, so it felt pretty damned good all the way along him and for a little while he had to go slow so he wouldn't end up finishing it before it got a chance to start. He pulled out, pulled out a lot, then pushed steadily back in, until he found a comfortable rhythm.

"That is the weirdest shit I have _ever_ felt my body do," Dean told him, let him know, as that sensitive skin dragged along while Sam slid outwards and he made a little moan in his throat as Sam pushed inside again.

"Good shit?" Sam asked, but he had a smile that seemed to suggest he knew it would be. He pushed himself up a little more, unwinding his arms from Dean's middle to get some balance, in order to even his thrusts into a slightly faster rhythm. 

Dean's groan of satisfaction was the only answer Sam got. And then Sam picked up the pace.

" _That's_ the stuff," Dean encouraged, low and rough and he shifted against the faded car seat, opening his hips a little wider, body tingling with nothing but pleasure and his palms sweaty where they gripped the car and the Vaseline rubbing off against the seat. He felt his stomach flinch every time Sam drove in deep, a little twitch of muscle as his body made room for him and between panting breaths that hitched up short he heard himself making pleading, needy sounds he didn't think he'd heard before, like if Sam could just give him _more_ and _harder_ , something down inside him would irrevocably change.

Sam grunted as Dean's legs spread further, giving him more room to move, more room to thrust. He swallowed a breath as he took advantage of that. He moved one hand to brace himself against the wall of the car and the other moved to rest behind Dean's head, pillowing there so that his brother wouldn't smack his head against the car as their pace quickened, thrusts beginning to shift both of them bodily.

Dean's face passed through the whole range of emotions: concern, amusement, relief and helpless pleasure. He braced one foot against the driver's seat, the other drawn up. It wasn't the most comfortable position, but with Sam rutting his willing body, he barely cared. Those sounds he was making, the strangely appealing squelch of sex between his legs and Sam’s breathing labored above him...Dean let his concerns fall away, until there was only Sam driving into him, exposing all those deep down things he'd buried.

There was pain in that and he grimaced with it. He held a special amount of self-hatred in reserve, like whiskey aged over long years. It was just as potent. He could feel the bitter tang of the part of him that said he didn't _deserve_ Sam, buried with a hundred other nasty things. _Slut. Stupid. Worthless. Bow legged. Ungrateful. Faggot. Crooked nosed. Filthy._

Sam's love was hard to take when it stripped him down to that abandoned core where nothing good waited for him. He'd lived most of his life a nothing of a person, a nobody -- everything worthwhile cut out and sacrificed to the quest his father had sworn his life to. It was Sam who had saved him from that and slowly, only slowly, he was starting to believe he might be able to see whatever Sam saw in him. Good things shriveled and ignored on the wayside.

Sam couldn't hear him, not anymore. He couldn't _know_ , with the blinding clarity he’d had all the things he'd learned over those months in Dean's head, the self-hatred welling up, finally, to the surface. But telepathy was only an interpreter putting words to the motions and expressions that Sam'd learned to read a long time ago.

Maybe he didn't know the rhyme and reason to the emotions in Dean, maybe he couldn't see, precisely, all the cracks and crags and know all the ways that Dean had invented to hurt himself, but he knew the shape of it. He'd always had a sense of it, at least.

When he came, keening and then spilling inside of his brother, one hand having shifted down between Dean's legs to rub over his erection, erratically, he bit down on the chord of muscle that bound Dean's neck to his shoulders, leaving a mark. It was the way to speak to Dean, in Dean's language, that Sam was happy to have him, to let anyone who saw them know that Dean _deserved_ this.

Dean whimpered, he _whimpered_ at the bruise of Sam's teeth on his skin. He felt Sam's hand tighten as Sam pumped streams of sticky semen where no man had gone before and it brought him closer to that dizzy edge. Dean must have rocked that way a thousand times, into any soft and pliant, willing body, but it was a different kind of intensity to have some massive guy ramming his body, fucking him wide open. Wide open -- and that ache in his chest and sweat dripping off his skin and those the noises he'd been making these plaintive little grunts, now and he was quivering like freaking jello, Sam thrusting through his orgasm into a space Dean was still amazed was big enough to take him. Sam kneaded his pulsing erection a few more hard strokes before it all caught up with him, slammed against the back of his eyes and he spilled over Sam's hand, his cum splattering hot on his stomach.

For awhile their bodies continued to move, back and forth, over the upholstery of the backseat, until they were left still and panting.

Sam lifted his head from the crook of Dean's neck to look down at his brother, semen damp on his stomach. He steadied his brother's body as he pulled back, pulled out of him and he shifted backwards, pulling Dean up to sit. 

The younger man reached down for the two blankets on the floor, draping them both around Dean before leaning back against the wall of the car, preferring to stretch his legs out than lie horizontal but curled up. He tugged Dean towards him, to use Sam as a pillow and bring the old blankets around them. The blankets smelled like gun oil and were kind of itchy, but it was better than nothing.

Dean tucked himself up with Sam’s sweaty body with a satiated groan, kissing whatever bare, salty skin was closest to his mouth, languid and sensual. The cum was messy on his stomach and he knew it'd dry flakey, but there were a lot worse things to be dirty with (like entrails, or sewage).

It was still chill in the car, but their body heat and the blankets made up for some of it. It wasn't the most uncomfortable place they'd slept.

Sam shut his eyes and his hand drifted down Dean's body, then up it again in a repetitive motion, leaning his head to the side, against the seat-back and his own shoulder.

"...do plenty of that, later. When we go fishing," Sam smiled a little, tiredly. "That's all we'll do. Sleep, eat, fish and fuck...For _months_ , man." It was a good plan.

"Fuck while we're fishing?" Dean smiled a naughty smile, resting his hand on Sam's warm stomach.

"Don't you think that'd scare the fish away?" Sam's hand eventually drifted up, over the ridge of Dean's shoulder, following the line of his arm, down to cover the hand on his stomach.

Dean didn't seem to understand the question, screwing his face up in contemplation.

The topic fell away to silence again and the wind made a sharp sound outside the car as it whistled through the camp ground. Sam shifted down a little more, the sound alone making it seem colder than it really was. It was only September, after all. 

Two months to go.

"...you--...good?" he asked his brother, in the silence.

Dean's drifting vision came back into focus and he moved a little to make himself more comfortable against Sam, a frown creasing his brow.

"How'm I supposed to take that?"

"Take it...well?" Sam volunteered, if he got to say how Dean took it. "I guess, I didn't expect--..."

"What…the sex? Sex was great, man. You were a stallion." Dean patted Sam's stomach, reassuring and a little smug.

Sam snorted at that comment, smiling though at his brother's typical wording. His body jerked a little at the pat.

"Well...good."

"You didn't expect what?" Dean pursued. He was pretty sure he had a kink for Sam talking about sex.

"For you to ask me for that."

Dean pursed his lips. He liked sex. He liked all sorts of sex. It hadn't seemed all that out of the ordinary, the way his thought process ran.

"You never thought about gettin' up on me?"

"I thought about it. Didn't think _you_ thought about it." It had been a long time since Sam'd been _inside_ of someone else. Having someone inside of him was still new and different to him, no matter how many times they did it, but he hadn't been the one controlling the rhythm of sex for awhile now.

"Course you thought about it," Dean said proud. "I got a great ass." His fingers scratched gratitude against Sam's bare stomach. "I mean, you're kind of a girl, but I never doubted you had it in you."

"You know, one day you're going to get tired of the girl jokes. It'll be a good day." His belly twitched a little under the ticklish motion and he grinned a little, smacking the back of Dean's hand playfully.

"The same day you can walk on two shots of Jim Beam," Dean promised, real sincere, ducking his head with the swat and grinning devilish back.

Sam let out a breath on a laugh and moved his hands until their fingers knit and his rested between each of his brother's.

"Naw, you know, it just seemed like the right time."

"Yeah?" Sam queried, encouraging his brother to continue, surprised that Dean hadn’t gone quite, like usual.

Dean had had no intention of continuation. He screwed his face up, a face like a cat that got dunked in water.

That open feeling hadn't faded when Sam slipped out of his body. He still felt that unfamiliar promise of safety, the promise Sam's body had made that he could let go and Sam could guide him. He didn't completely trust that feeling. It was a sneaky feeling working for Sam and his emotional pornography. Sam had probably _injected_ it right along with the semen he'd left inside of him.

"...I trusted you." The words fell off his lips, unbidden.

"...good," Sam said, both breathless and firmly proud, not expecting Dean to say something like that. "...still trust me, though, right?" he asked, only after noting the past tense conjugation Dean had used.

"Don't be an ass." Dean rolled his eyes.

"I trust you too, Dean," Sam responded easily, even though he knew it was obvious.

"I feel somethin'..." Dean said, narrowing his eyes. "Somethin' between my legs...Ooch! _Oh_. I think it's a _vagina_."

" _Now_ who's being an ass?"

"You know I love you." Dean blew it off. "You've just got some...weird... _kink_ about hearin' me say it."

Sam couldn’t help but notice that Dean was...chatty. Talkative. Talkative about things that Dean wasn't usually talkative about. 

"...Didn't know the way to your heart was through your ass." Sam sort of grinned.

"Freak birth defect," Dean deadpanned.

Sam took advantage. He wrapped his arms, both of them now, around his brother, held him tight.

"I love you. I mean it. Not just--...You know. Not just brotherly. I mean I love you. Same way you love me,” the younger man’s voice was as firm as it always was. It had taken six months for Sam to say. For it to become that.

Dean rested his head against Sam's chest and let him have his emotional minute. It didn't hurt like it used to. It didn't spook him deep. Those defensive reactions were a relic of a past time. He could let Sam hold him and not force a distance between them, protect his space. Sam'd been able to read his mind, but he'd never felt as close to him then as he did right now.

One of Sam's hands trailed up Dean's spine, over the back of his neck and into his hair. He was glad to have said it. He felt the need to, given what was coming for them.

"A little while after you left for Stanford..." Dean's words came unexpected, but they'd been weighing heavy for days on his mind. They spilled from his mouth like he couldn't stop them, sick and sad. "I got this phone call. It was this girl, Hadiya, she was...pre-med, real ambitious, kind of like you." It sunk in with him just how long he'd gone on alone, kept these words to himself. "We'd hooked up...a month or two before. She was pregnant."

Sam looked down at his brother, though it was hard to turn his head down far enough to actually see him. His breath stilled for a moment at Dean's words, but Sam didn't say anything, worried that if he did, it'd only make Dean go quiet again.

"She said...the second thing she told me, she wasn't gonna keep it. She needed a ride. She didn't have her own car. She didn't wanna tell anybody. I mean, she came from real old fashioned people." He bit his lower lip, but he opened his mouth again and the words still came out. "I said okay. I...drove three states. In the waitin' room, there were people holdin' hands...She sure didn't wanna hold my hand." He chuckled, the memory bitter. "Maybe she lied. Maybe there were other guys and I was the only sap who'd..." His voice quavered and it was too much to say. He didn't say it. "I killed a kid. I killed my kid. Family." He hovered on the verge of saying more, his throat tight and he blinked the salty water back from his eyes.

Sam's hand shifted and his long fingers curled over Dean's cheek, across his cheekbone. There were parts of Dean he didn't know, even yet. Things he didn't know but expected, things he didn't know but still _knew_. Knew like he knew when he looked at Dean's hands that his brother had killed another man. Knew like he knew that Dean had a hatred in himself greater than the hate he had in the supernatural.

But there were things, sometimes, that he couldn't call. Things that came out of left field, like Dean being in love with him, like Dean carrying around the guilt that he'd killed a family member, while he'd stood beside and supported the woman who'd asked him to be there. 

"I told her I'd get her money. I told her I'd take it. I told her...it's just nine months. But she was scared and she said...'You don't know me.' She said, 'You can't do this to me.'" His voice shook like his body had trembled underneath Sam. The abscess leaked and there was more pain there than he knew how to cope with. He sounded lost and he sounded broken. He forced out those last words, the end of that story: "After that...I met Cassie."

For a moment Sam felt his protective love for Dean snap at the girl who put him through this, but it wasn't her fault. Something like this wasn't anyone's _fault_. She hadn't tried to put Dean through anything -- she'd been going through her it herself, as bad or even worse than Dean had, carrying the responsibility inside of her. But Sam didn't know her, didn't love her and all he knew now was Dean's pain.

Dean didn't want absolution. He didn't want Sam telling him that it was okay, that he'd done the right thing, even if he'd done the best he could have, given the situation. Dean knew that. It wasn't about that.

"...you're a good man, Dean," Sam said, because it wasn't that the past could or should be justified, or that rationalizations should be given for actions, but that Dean was a man who had lived all his life trying to do the right thing and had never had another human being tell him 'you done good'. 

Sam wasn't human. Maybe the words didn't mean as much, coming from a demon, but Sam knew his brother like he knew few things and there wasn't a thing Dean could ever tell him that would make Sam doubt the goodness in him. 

The very parameters of their world had shifted, were shifting, but Sam knew that, through and through. 

Dean sniffed back a noseful of wet and the tears broke over his eyelids, trickled down his cheek leaving damp trails. It hurt to hear Sam say it, like cutting the rot off a festering wound. They were words he'd never wanted to hear. They went against everything he believed about himself, the hate for himself that had been the only sure thing in his life for so long.

He choked a sob, a jerk of his body, he remembered that night. He remembered feeling that low. He remembered dropping Hadiya off. She never looked at him. Not a single time, not on the whole ride home. Like that pregnant woman in his car only two days ago, she didn't say thank you. There was only her back disappearing into the warm yellow glow from her apartment building and a closed door. He drank that night. He passed out on the bed in some cheap motel and woke up with vomit he could taste in his mouth but didn't remember coming up on the toilet seat and the bathroom floor.

He'd never seen himself as good man. Not even a little bit good. Good was a word for Sam. Good was supposed to be Sam's future.

Sam's arm curled up under Dean's, hand pressing against his back as his other hand turned his brother's head, hiding his face away in the crook of Sam's neck.

"I'm here because of you," Sam said, lowly, murmured against Dean's skin. "I would have been like all these others...I _was_ like all of them. "You taught a demon how to walk and talk like a person. You're a good man. " You're a good man. I know that. I know _you_."

The pain overwhelmed Dean and for minutes he was silent, except for those intermittent sobs and the tears ran wet and he had to fight to breathe. Sam didn't shirk from Dean's pain, or collapse under the weight of it. He wasn't sixteen and needy all the time for his sibling's love and support. He wasn't scared of it. Dean's back jerked with the unsteady breathes he took, Sam's skin damp under his face.

It wasn't just a collection of events.

It wasn't a child dead and disposed like medical waste. It wasn't a woman with her throat swollen tight on the floor of her apartment and the sound of sirens. It wasn't a child killer breathing his last on the floor of some long abandoned place. It wasn't the fact that he would have blown Max Miller away without knowing a single thing about him, without giving him the same chance he'd given Sam. It wasn't making threats to his father, the man he respected more than any man alive. It wasn't a pregnant woman trembling in an attic. It wasn't a hundred quick fucks or leaving N. Parker and people like him in their broken lives and burning houses.

It was that Sam would absolve him of every single one of those things and all the others like them. Sam had told him back in that lonely cabin he could have any life he wanted, but he hadn't even begun to believe it. He hadn't let himself _start_ to believe it. Not until now. This minute in the back of his shitty, seen-better-days Mazda sedan. He knew if he started believing it, he couldn't go on living the way he had, hand to mouth and one foot in the darkness.

\----

It wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t a dream because he was very conscious of the fact that his body was asleep. His mind, however, was not.

The world moved slow but noticeable on its axis, earth brown and dry and the sky dusty with autumn, sun burning close and bright, leaves moving around them and the face he’d seen in the darkness turned to look at him, not just a face now, but a figure. 

For a long time, Sam just stared at him. 

It was like looking into a mirror, or seeing a twin of himself. He supposed that that was only what he wanted to see, or how he perceived that he would see it and so it was, or something like that. It was easier, he supposed, than seeing himself as some kind of infernal beast. Still better than that. 

He swallowed slowly and he began to circle it, watching the way it watched him. 

“So you’re the demon in me,” he said, more than asked. 

“No,” it responded. “ _You_ are a demon. All the way through. Waking, sleeping…Every thought you’ve ever had has always been demonic, because that’s what you are, whether you remember or not. I’m just the bit of you that remembers _before_.” 

Sam winced, hating the truth as much as he always had. 

Something he wanted so badly, something he feared like the monsters he had envisioned at the age of five. 

“Am I going to remember?”

The figure (which, Sam had to remind himself, wasn’t so much a _figure_ as a collection of memories) looked at him blankly and did not say anything. Sam continued. 

“I don’t want to.” 

“I know that.” 

Sam licked his lips slowly. 

“So what happens now?” he finally asked, stopping in his movements. The memories, which had never stepped one way or the other, were still somehow facing him. 

“What are you going to do?” they asked. 

“What?” Sam looked confused. 

“You think that I get to tell you what to do?” the memories looked confused, then laughed. “What do you think I am?” 

“You’re--…” Sam started, but was interrupted.

“I’m not some separate entity. We knew everything when we decided to do this. We knew we would forget. We knew the people we would kill. But we serve only one master. Our self. Legion promised us a power we could not otherwise obtain. All I am is our memories of that time, the time before we forgot everything and lived as a human lives.” The memories now looked like Sam’s freshman lit teacher, droning on about things that Sam found to be confusing and trite at the same time. “A personification of the memories you perceive to be lurking somewhere in your head. I’m the face you put on that abstract notion, to ease your mind and feel that there’s something _else_ in you that is evil and nefarious, instead of seeing the inherent perversity of your own creation.” 

“You think this is funny?” Sam frowned. 

“I don’t _think_ at all,” the memories responded testily. Their emotional state seemed to mirror Sam’s. “I’m not a separate personality or other _brain_ in your head. I’m only a package of memories, stored away for when the time came. The time has come. Came a long time ago, but we didn’t want to remember, so we haven’t.” 

“So, if you’re not going to make me remember, why am I here?” Sam tucked his hands into his pockets, which he realized weren’t real and neither were the hands he tucked into them. 

“I don’t know. Why are you here? I am nothing. Will nothing. I didn’t make you come here, nor could I make you remember. I couldn’t make you do anything. The real question is, what do you _want_?” 

”To do whatever I can to save the Winchesters,” Sam responded easily, the only real goal he had in mind. “To try and pay them back for everything I’ve taken from them.” 

“How noble.” 

“Nothing I do is noble, is it?”

“No. You’re a demon. You might act like a man, might cry like one, might love like one, but your every action is selfish. You will never perform one selfless act. By your very nature you are self serving, life taking. You have no immortal soul, like a man does.” 

“Then what can I _do_?” 

“That’s up to you,” the memories, clothed again in his own face, took unseen steps towards him. “You are of a new kind. You and all the other soldiers put into human babes. You are still something new and unknown. You have no soul, but you can will. You’re not a true demon, not anymore. You effect change. You alter, bend and shape. You adapt. You wish. You hope and you despair. But don’t think for a second that that makes you human.”

“Please…” Sam said, low and keening, but he had no idea what he was begging for. 

“ _No_ ,” came the reply and everything ended in a flash and a clap of noise and Sam woke up, Dean still asleep on his chest.

The dawn was coming in pale.


	24. Chapter 24

The sky wasn’t tinted any deeper by the rising sun. The air was clear and cold and the sun looked like it was burning white instead of gold.

Sam watched the whole slow process, one hand lazily stroking his brother's hair, Dean's head resting slack-jawed against Sam's shoulder and collarbone.

When Dean blinked awake, it was his eyes that were sore, not the part of him he'd expected to feel aching. Sam was holding him close and protective, Sam's hand affectionately caressing his hair. Dean didn't feel the need to assert his masculinity against that. He didn't feel the threat he used to, showing a more vulnerable side to his little brother. He shifted a little closer and let his eyes drift shut, breathing in Sam, the stale car air, and the smell of gun oil on the blankets.

There was a little warmth gathered up under the blanket, in their exchange of body heat, though one of Sam's feet was extended outside the blankets, and felt like a block of ice.

Sam took in a deep breath and turned his head downwards a little, to resting his nose and mouth in his brother's spiky hair. He shifted his arms around Dean's shoulders and neck, one palm resting against the back of his head, holding him more securely.

 _There_ was the itch to spout a snarky comment. Dean battled it off. 

He didn't know how long it'd be until they ended up in this kind of position again, dried sweat and dried semen and the smell of sex and the memory of their bodies colliding. His body had rested, and he felt awake, and alert, but an emotional exhaustion still clouded his thoughts, the hangover after the lurch from one emotional extreme to the other, and his muscles were sore, the aftermath of an unexpected workout.

In the pale morning light it was hard to believe that Sam had pushed himself inside him, that the quivering person who'd been making those uninhibited, pleading noises had been him. 

One of Sam's hands moved lazy over Dean's back, but halted when he heard the crunch of leaves outside. He tipped his head back, but couldn't see anything through the window.

"...looks like the _children_ are up," Sam sighed. If the demons were about, someone needed to be keeping an eye on them.

Dean groaned, unwilling to be separated from Sam's strong, naked body. Sam's penis rested relaxed against his thigh, soft and sheltered, and the only place Dean wanted his morning to go was somewhere that involved him and it and a longer celebration of their reunion.

"Maybe if we ignore 'em somebody'll stick their finger in an electric socket."

"Dude, we're in _the woods_ ," Sam snorted, fingers curling on the back of Dean's neck.

Dean grumbled against Sam's farmer's tan.

”You never get behind my dreams.”

"You dream of demons electrocuting themselves in forests?"

"Right _now_. And how about me watchin' you bone hot chicks? Or handcuffs an' ice cream? Or...Cassie havin' your babies?" Dean was oppressed. Sam was keeping his people down. It had to stop.

" _What?_ " Sam balked at the last one. Dean's head went _strange places_.

Dean squinted blearily at Sam's chest. It was too early for that kind of volume.

"...okay, okay, we'll call up that Sarah chick."

"What? No. I'm not going to _cheat_ on you." It was still cheating in Sam's head, permission or no.

Dean just grinned, lips against Sam's skin.

"That's why god in his _infinite_ wisdom gave us the turkey baster, little brother."

Sam's jaw dropped and he just stared.

Dean's eyebrows snuck up appreciatively and he nuzzled against Sam's skin. Sam being _virile_. _That_ had been a fantasy of Dean’s since he was seventeen.

"Do you have some kind of kink for breeding me out?" Sam asked, but his tone was tempered by Dean's nuzzling.

"Damn right I do, beefcake." Dean sucked air through his teeth. Sizzling. "You get out there and you _share_ those genes."

Sam made a discontent sound.

"Let's not keep that particular nickname in circulation..." His voice drifted off, however, when he heard more motion outside the car. "Man...now we really do have to get up." He let out a disgruntled breath and started shifting himself up to sit, wriggling out from under Dean.

Dean's warm, irritable Sam was gone from underneath him, Dean's bare skin against the car seat, the old fabric carrying Sam's residual body heat. He squirmed onto his side and for a few lazy moments didn't seem very interested in getting up, but he finally started groping for his jeans.

\----

Sam showered in water that was doing its best to be luke warm, but its attempts only made everything feel colder. He dried off and pulled on his jeans, letting the rough blanket he'd used as a towel rest around his bare shoulders as he stepped out on the unpaved camp ground, one hand rubbing the blanket into his scruffy hair as he walked.

He watched his demons mill around him, watching their heads dip and eyes defer, moving among them with what was approaching ease now. He could honestly say that there were one or two that he thought were funny. One girl he thought was charming. There was one boy who was a little younger than him that had the same passion for books that he did. Tidbits of information and emotion that troubled him -- but he had bigger fish to fry, now.

He grabbed the arm of the dirty, private demon who'd answered him, back in the attic, guessing he didn’t like his boat to be rocked, and there was no reason not to use that. Sam pulled him behind the wide trunk of a tree, away from the eyes of the others. It was easy to lose one in a crowd. Sam looked down at the other man, still holding his arm tightly.

"I want to know which one in this group is the strongest telepath. I have a job for them."

The demon flinched against Sam's strong grasp, his clothing tattered and stained. He licked his thin lips, looking up at Sam, sullen from beneath his stringy hair, cagey, as uncomfortable as Sam had expected at being singled out.

"Strongest telepath? You talkin'...one 'at makes people see what he wants...or one who gets inside your head?"

"The latter," Sam responded, after a beat. He had to be careful. He didn't want to tip the demons off to their plans.

The demon's skulking gaze trailed off towards the camp behind them, his brow furrowed in thought.

"...s'Emeline." He nodded to himself. "She's th' best."

Sam drew back and nodded shortly, giving the other demon space enough to leave -- and all the dismissal he'd get. Sam didn't play games like Pierce did.

The demon waited one suspicious moment before he tugged his ragged clothes around him and retreated into the camp, nervous and spidery. He didn't sit so far from the others, now.

Sam moved back to the Mazda, crawling inside to sit in the passenger's seat, shutting the door behind him. He let out a slow breath and wet his lips before speaking. He looked over to his brother, both unsure and resolute at the same time.

"Make the call."

\----

It took four days for the hunters to assemble in any meaningful way. They got their tattoos when they met up. Sam had detailed every ritual performed on Dean to his father, who had relayed that information to let Ruth narrow it down to a three step process.

It took less than one day for a group to get out to the camp grounds.

They had to wait until it was three in the morning, when everything was dead still and sleep was at its deepest. Sam had described to John on the phone the girl that wasn't to be killed, and the car she’d be in. 

It was a weak excuse, but Sam was glad the hunters had come -- he knew he was as responsible for the deaths of these people as anyone, but at least he didn't have to see the knives going into their flesh.

Dean lay in the Mazda's back seat with his eyes open, listening for footsteps on the grass and gravel, but they were hunters and he heard nothing, only saw their shadows pass over the car as they moved through the light. He heard car doors opening, four or two at a time, the release of the latch and then silence.

He touched the handle of the knife tucked in his belt. For all the humiliation he and Sam had suffered at these demons hands, he wanted to drive it home into flesh. The reality of their deaths had yet to sink in.

The brothers had agreed to stay in the Mazda. They'd agreed that it was too easy to make mistakes with strangers in the dark. So Dean waited, and he listened, and he imagined the quiet carnage outside.

Sam lay just as stiff, body unmoving but vibrating with tension by the time it was over. There'd been a strangled cry at one point, but it had died out before it was loud enough to bother campers further down the road that weren't involved in this.

Eventually the driver's side door opened and Sam had a gun trained on the figure, but dropped his hand when he recognized his father's countenance.

"Boys," John said, in easy greeting. "It's over. Can come on out, now."

Dean sat up in the back seat, cracking his shoulders. The air drifting into the Mazda stank metallic. It smelled like blood.

He let himself out, standing up in the dew damp grass, and he surveyed the campsite. Sleeping sack shrouded corpses, once demons, lay in the open like body bags. Car doors hung open, lifeless bodies slumped inside. Hunters moved among the dead, taking body counts, or saying prayers. Two hunters guarded Emeline, at gunpoint, huddled in her blood splattered jacket, sobbing, _Don't shoot me. Please, don't shoot me. Can't you see I'm pregnant?_

A woman stood watch on the road, her shotgun at her side.

Sam swallowed hard, walking through the carnage, noticing two of the hunters picking one of their own up off the ground, body limp. There was another that Sam could see, a few yards off. Two casualties. 

He stopped in front of Emeline, seeing the nearest hunter's eyes flicker to him.

"We need her, to find out where the others are," Sam said, uneasily. No guns moved to him, but there was little warmth or charity in the hunters movements.

John put one hand on Sam's shoulder, and Sam stepped back, uneasy.

"We need her help...Nothing else, she's got a point. That thing in her is human. Doesn't deserve to be shot." John wasn't the most well liked hunter in the business, especially now that it was _known news_ that one of his children was a demon, but he had earned a grudging respect, if nothing else.

Emeline stared up at Sam, eyes wild, cheeks sore and chapped from salty tears and cold night air. She fisted her hands violently in her jacket, digging at the nylon fabric.

" _You did this_ ," she snarled, snot running from her nose. Her hatred dug into Sam's mind like knives. He was the only one unprotected.

Sam cried out, his knees buckling as his hands flew to his head.

It was Dean that left the body he was helping to move, stormed between the five of them, grabbing one of the guns trained on Emeline's head and pistol whipping her unconscious with the sick crack of metal on bone.

"You two thinkin' about helpin' him out?" Dean challenged, spinning the gun around to disarm it and flipping the safety before he handed it back to the rugged, older hunter. He watched the girl wary as he kneeled beside Sam, leaning in, hand on his back, to check him out.

The hunter took his gun back, but there wasn't any guilt or shame in their expressions. 

Sam stayed kneeling for a moment, hands still on either side of his head. He felt Dean's hand against his back, and he raised his face slightly, enough to see his brother and let out a quiet breath of relief.

John moved around them, to Emeline's fallen form. He crouched down and picked her up, limp in his arms.

Dean helped Sam to his feet, knowing if he was any of those other hunters, if he hadn't known Sam himself, he'd be that same, cold person, as willing to kill Sam as the others. The men had no reason to believe in Sam, and Dean could understand it, but it burned him up just the same. He massaged the back of Sam's neck between his palm and his fingers.

"Come on, Sammy. Let's help disappear these bodies." The grin on his lips acknowledged how ridiculous it was that any two people should say _that_ in a conversation.

Sam lowered one hand, the other still against his temple, and he smiled a little for Dean, looking down at his brother.

They had to drag the bodies, still in their sleeping bags, or wrapped in their blankets, into the backs of the two trucks that the hunters brought. They loaded them up like cargo, and it made Sam queasy, but he went through with the work anyhow. He reminded himself that these things had no right to live -- but it was difficult to say that, when he knew he was one just like them.

They followed the trucks out of the campgrounds in the Mazda, Emeline trussed up and out cold in the back. They left four of the hunters at the camp grounds, those ones on duty to get rid of the cars, the seats bloodstained and the plate numbers dangerous. Sam wasn't entirely certain how they'd get rid of the three vehicles, but he knew hunters had disappeared more than just that, in their time.

When the trucks in front of them stopped, it was out in a desolate field, about seventy miles away from the campground, and well out into the wilderness of Montana. A man and a woman were waiting to greet them, grinning as they shook the hand of one of the hunters already with them. The couple had smears of dirt over their skin, and they carried shovels. They led the trucks back to a large trench, where a couple other men were waiting, large tubs and containers next to them, shovels standing upright in the ground.

The hunters unhinged the trucks' backs and began to unload the bodies and sleeping bags into the trench -- a mass grave. When the trucks were unloaded, the hunters who'd dug the trench picked up the containers and began to douse the bodies in salt and gasoline, taking no chances.

It was a big fire, the accelerant burning hot, and the smoke-thick air smelled like charred human flesh. Dean held his shirt over his nose, leaning against the Mazda, but that pungent odor pervaded even the smell of own body, and his stomach was sick. He couldn't console himself thinking _They weren't people_. Maybe they could have been, but they'd made their choices and there were no take-backs. The demons he'd lived among day in and day out, the people he'd seen laughing together, people whose names he couldn't scrub out of his mind...They weren't just dead. By the time the fire suffocated beneath the soil, they'd no longer exist in _any_ form.

When the fire burned low and before dawn began to break on the horizon, they all took up shovels and filled the grave in, the last of the smoke carried away on the fall wind. The hunters had removed the top soil in chunks, and they replaced it haphazard but as best they could, like squares of sod, so that in a few weeks time it would be hard to tell the soil had been upturned.

They took cartons of bleach to the truck beds, tossing it sharp and unadulterated across the metal, making sinuses sting with the odor, and the skin on palms crack as they used clothes to rub it over the whole of the beds. They took two buckets of water to each to wash the last of the blood and bleach away. They covered the truck beds with blankets, for the hunters to load up into.

When it was over and the sun was halfway up its climb, Sam crawled into the back of the Mazda with Emeline’s unconscious form, giving the passenger's seat over to his father.

"Where to, Dad?" Dean asked, hand resting on the steering wheel, eyes bleary from the smoke and from the bleach. He felt like he'd aged nine years in the last two. Haggard in the harsh noon sun, it showed on his face, in the lines etched in his skin.

"Follow the others," John responded with a long sigh, nodding to his son. The first of the trucks pulled away, with the other following it up. 

Dean rolled into the convoy, out of place in his battered old clunker amid vehicles that could put in for the long haul and pull through every time. Refurbishing a better car hadn't been on the top of his list of priorities, with bigger things going on in his harried life. But the shitty little sedan reflected on him in a personal way, in this kind of company. It wasn't the image he wanted to put off around twenty-odd people who wanted to kill his brother. 

They drove some eight hundred miles in total, having to stop early in the evening at a rest stop to get some sleep. It was awkward with Emeline in the back of the Mazda -- Sam had a bottle of chloroform and a rag for when she woke up, putting her back out again before she could drive any more spikes into his mind. Dean got a pistol from the truck and tucked it in the back of his pants. Better safe than sorry.

They arrived in Colorado late the next day, pulling up to a large cabin (that was more of a house) in the woods -- deep in the woods, if the last three hours of mountainous terrain they'd driven through was any indication.

Dean hadn't found anything to say to his father on the long drive down. They'd only talked business, when the radio wasn't filling in the lulls between their words. It wasn't the same, fear wracked silence as that car ride out of Rhode Island. Dean didn't think John wanted to know how their private lives were. _So, I finally gave Sam my anal virginity_ , didn't feel like the right thing to bring up.

John had stayed just as quiet, but it wasn't all that unusual for him. 

When they arrived at their destination, their father got out of the car first, slamming his door and moving around to the back door to pull Emeline's body out. Her limbs flailed feebly, not quite conscious and not quite out.

"We're gonna have to find a way to contain her -- it's not going to be easy," Sam said, slipping out. He didn't know what her telekinesis was like, but he'd noticed, back in Canada, that most of the demons seemed to have it. He only hoped it came in bursts, without Max or Pierce’s exacting control.

"They said they had facilities, in the basement," John huffed as he threw her over his shoulder.

"Looks like there's enough people to keep a couple on her all the time," Dean said, looking around at the convocation of hunting personalities. One or two faces he recognized, people he'd seen on Jim's couch, or brushed paths with on the road. None of them he knew by name, most of them at least ten years his senior. There were a lot though – beyond the two dozen that’d assembled to help them out, there appeared to be more already in the house.

"May or may not be a good idea..." Sam wasn't hot on the thought of Emeline bouncing her guards into walls with her teke until their skulls burst. He was distracted, however, by the looks he was getting. A few were angry, most distrustful, one or two scared, but a whole hell of a lot were...predatory. Devoid of emotion whatsoever. He was nothing more than prey, something to be wiped out, and Sam was pretty sure he could take on a couple of these guys (or girls), but not _all_ of them.

He was a first hand witness to just how good a hunter could be.

He cleared his throat and navigated his way through the crowded house, to the stairs that led down in to the basement, where there was some kind of prison cell, cinderblocks and hand welding.

Useful.

Dean had Sam's back, and his face was stern -- foreboding. He knew a few of these guys might take their chances at taking Sam out. Neither of them could relax. There was no leader they'd all hearken to, no deals to be cut but individually.

He saw Bobby at the kitchen table and he nodded to him. Bobby nodded back, and Dean hoped that that was at least one person willing to give his little brother the benefit of the doubt.

He followed Sam into the basement.

They left Emeline tied up and on a cot. Sam paused to pull a blanket over her, before they left her locked away.

Sam glanced over at the stairs.

"...you know, it might be best if Dean and I stayed guard." It'd keep the others out of danger, and it was a safe bet no one else'd want to sleep down there. Sam certainly didn't feel safe up there, or out back where the hunters that didn't have places to sleep had set up tents. At least in the basement there was only one way in and one way out.

"Wouldn't bother me," Dean chipped in. Was about the only way he'd sleep sound. He knew where he'd be sleeping.

On the staircase.

John nodded slow, seeing the strategic importance of the room.

"I'll tell the others. I'll be sleeping out in my truck while we're here," John added, informatively. "They don't expect a briefing tonight, but you should be up early tomorrow for it -- go talk to Bobby or Jefferson for supplies." They were the only two John still trusted that were here. It didn't help that John'd never had a bunch of friends with this lot to start with.

Dean pulled his M1911 out of the waist band of his jeans, dropped the clip out to make damn sure it was full, and locked it back inside the grip. He tucked it back in his pants and glanced up at his father.

"You packin'?"

"Of course," John responded, stopping on the second step. The company didn't make a difference -- John Winchester didn't go unarmed.

Dean indicated towards Sam with a jerk of head, sentiment written on his face. Sam hadn't picked up a gun since they went into Canada, and Dean didn't like the idea of a couple score hunters between them and John and only him with a pistol.

John paused, then sighed and reached behind himself, lifting his shirt to pull the magnum out from the waistband of his pants. The safety was on, obviously, but he paused to eject the clip and hold both out to Sam, because he and Sam had that bad recent history with guns.

Sam moved over to the stairs, taking the proffered weapon with a small nod.

"Thanks, Dad." He took the clip and their hands didn't brush with the ease of familiarity anymore, and John had an unnamable expression on his face when Sam called him 'Dad'. Sam licked his lips slowly, but he didn't have a chance to say anything else before John was walking up the stairs and out of the basement. Sam mumbled a curse and lowered his head, putting his attention on the gun as he loaded the clip.

Dean grimaced as the door clicked shut, glancing towards the cinderblock wall. Much as he wanted there to be, he saw no easy reconciliation in their broken family. The last time they'd been together, Dean had slept alone in his own hotel room, leaving Sam with their distrusting father, but Dean wouldn't make that kind of concession, now. Not with that cruel deadline looming before them, the future beyond it unfathomable.

Dean snorted, _scoffed_ at the idea of that.

Sam sighed and tucked his gun into the inside pocket of his coat, settling back on to the sort of ratty couch that was pushed awkwardly up against one bare wall. The basement was decidedly _unfurnished_ , and there was a bare light bulb in the center of the ceiling that was turned on, illuminating the windowless room.

They could hear the hunters upstairs moving around, behind that single closed door. Sam motioned for Dean to join him on the couch, shifting his body to make it obvious that he wanted Dean pressed up against him, close.

Dean obliged him without speaking, fitting into the space Sam had made for him, his body familiar with the contours of Sam's. The contact was racy like it never was usually. There was an element of risk, a possibility of discovery.

Dean tried not to think about the ways that turned him on.

He couldn't get aroused, anyway. Not with the memory of those corpses. The greasy smoke of them clinging to his clothes and his skin.

Sam turned and casually slung one leg over Dean's, tugging him close enough to rest his chin on his brother's shoulder. He let out a puff of breath, turning his head to the side until it was his cheekbone and not his chin that rested there. One bandaged hand lay on the opposite side of his brother's waist.

Of all the people in the world, Dean was the only one who would stand by him.

\----

The morning was surreal.

If there had ever been a gathering of this many hunters, Sam and Dean certainly hadn't been privy to it. Then again, the Winchesters had never been that close to the hunting community.

Everyone milled around, wandering through the kitchen to grab some breakfast or coffee (which wasn't coming fast enough). John was speaking quietly with two hunters the boys had never seen before, and a few other familiar faces could be spotted. Mostly they were being avoided, if not actively pushed out of the way. Bobby brought them some breakfast.

Dean picked at his food, trying to work up an appetite. He would've thought he'd feel secure, around this many like minded individuals, all armed to the teeth. Instead he was nervous and wary, and in some kind of psychosomatic manifestation, the food smelled decent but tasted like ash in his mouth.

He guessed mass murder wasn't something you just got over.

Sam drank his coffee and stayed close to a corner. 

It reminded him of being with the demons, not a few days earlier. Yeah, sure, these guys wouldn't play with his intestines just for fun like Pierce might have Dean's, but he'd still end up just as dead. They'd just moved from one precarious position to another.

Eventually the hunters began to settle themselves around. The house was relatively spacious, but even so, there were plenty of people standing around. The hunters stuck to small groups, naturally disinclined to order and organization.

The air buzzed with voices kept low in conversation. There was only one topic on anyone's mind: the difficulty of organizing hunters overseas to wipe out these nests of demons, if the hunters and the demons could even be found. They worked out networks of contacts, scribbling notes in their battered notebooks. They moved from group to group, and even though the assemblage looked completely disorganized, they began to work out a roughshod consensus.

The crowd quieted when a grizzled looking woman motioned for them to. She appeared to the owner of the property, and her greying hair was bound back in a tight ponytail. Her lips had been split by a nasty cut a long time ago.

"So," she said, her voice curled by years of smoking. "What have you found?"

"Have a pretty comprehensive list for Mexico, and down into Central America," one voice added.

"I have two I met up with in Venezuala."

"There's a guy I heard'a in Greenland."

A few others chorused in with contacts and regions and every so often the crowd would murmur and pens would scratch on loose pieces of paper.

"And you?" the woman looked over to Sam and Dean. "You're the ones that found them."

"Uh, yes, ma'am," Sam responded, pushing himself off the wall to stand up straight.

Dean glanced around the room, took the temperature of the crowd, sitting Indian style on the floor beside Sam. He unfolded his legs a moment later, rising to stand. He kept an impassive visage in front of this congregation, but he nodded his confirmation.

The hunters looked reserved, like they were casually waiting, but there was a feeling like Sam would only be useful for so long. It wasn't like Sam could blame them -- he'd used his fellow demons in a similar way.

"They're organizing into groups -- as far as we can tell, all over the world. They're all working for one demon-- "

"Which demon?" a voice demanded.

"--I don't know. I mean, we don't know his name. We've come up against him before."

"Demon I been hunting," John tacked on, emerging from the kitchen with his hands tucked into his pockets. "You all know the one."

There was murmuring and nods around the room, and a couple people talking about cases of burnings they'd come up against.

"This demon's the one been giving us all the run around," Bobby said, his expertise falling into the demonic arena. "I'm sure all you noticed how many possessions there been recently, how many demonic incidents. I got no reason to doubt this is part of all that, and is why I asked a lot of you to come." Not that it hadn't taken a hell of a lot of convincing.

"These demons," Dean broke in, spoke up, raising his voice a little to get the crowd's attention. "Turns out, when we waste these things – not just exorcize 'em, but waste 'em...They don't come back. That's it for them. They're lookin' to change that. Take what we got. The whole 'immortal soul' deal." Dean was no public speaker. He dominated in one on one conversations, but all eyes on him was a disconcerting situation. He put on a charismatic smile, and he sold it. "Don't know what you've been told, but right now, these half-human bastards like the ones we just took out…they got just one weakness. They die in these human bodies, that's it. That's forever. But they fix that...I don't think they're gonna stop with a couple little keg parties in the boondocks." He looked to Bobby, because Bobby these people trusted. Bobby had a better reputation than any of the Winchesters. "Those possessions you're talkin' about; it's these guys chompin' at the bit."

Bobby nodded firmly, giving Dean's words his support.

"What about you, though?" one of the hunters motioned to the younger of the Winchester brothers. "We've heard that you're one of them." His voice was oddly non-accusatory.

"...yeah, I am," Sam nodded, and another wave of talking broke out. Sam spoke over them. "The demons are put into children on their sixth month birthday, killing the human already there. They grow up without any memory of who they were, but these people remember now -- they may be human in body, but it's not like possession. There's no human left on the inside."

"What about you, then?"

"I don't remember. I was...I'm a hunter."

"Liar!" someone shouted and a messy debate started up in the crowd.

"We kill anything that falls outside the lines of nature."

"What about witches, then? They've always been on our side, and they use old magic."

"We could use a spy. You think we could win this without one?"

"Of course. We've always done it before."

"He could be lying. Might be a spy, but not for us."

"We killed those kids. He already picked the side he falls on in this."

Dean listed to the chatter, the hunters arguing his little brother's right to breathe the same air they did. That irrational anger surged inside him, and he focused on his breathing to quiet it down.

" _We were in there together_ ," he ground out, startled by the steady volume in his own voice. Some of the hunters were paying attention, some of them still debating in the crowd. "We were in there together," Dean repeated, firm. "You think we coulda wiped out those kids without Sam--...Sam wasn't here, we wouldn't know about _any_ of this. Some of you sound pretty _freakin'_ ungrateful."

Sam reached down, gauze wrapped fingers wrapping gently around Dean's wrist. They were still in it together.

"Hush, all you," the owner of the house said, and the murmuring went on for a moment, but died down again. "Arguing isn't going to help. We all agree something big's coming, right? I think we all've seen the signs. We might just break even with an ace up our sleeve. God and the devil know I'm not one for keeping demons in my home, but we've all mucked through to get done whats got to get done. Agreed?"

The hunters nodded, some sagely and others discontent, opinions varying too much for there to be any real accord, but they were the type of people used to pushing down their own feelings to do a job.

"So tell us, Winchester. What do you know?" she asked, looking at Sam without any warmth, no matter what her defense of him had been.

"There's one down in the basement. We can find out where the other groups are from her," Sam responded, having to admit he was unsettled with the looks he was getting. 

"And what of her, then? I assume she isn't _like you_."

"...no. She's definitely as dangerous as they come...But she's pregnant. And not with a demon -- that baby's gonna be as human as you all are."

"Baby may be what we can get her with," Dean said, Sam's hand a reassuring influence on his wrist. "These guys...thing they want most is to go on. Convince her she's over, but this baby's her chance to trick death...may have an angle to get in her head." He shrugged. It wasn't a sure thing. "That don't work, break out the pliers and the screwdrivers and get medieval." He spoke mostly to Bobby, because speaking to Bobby he could pretend he wasn't trying to sell it to a mob. "Same thing that keeps Sam sane keeps him from feelin' those other demons out, so that girl's all we got."

"Then we use what we've got," Jefferson said, before anyone else could chime in. He was leaned against the wall next to John, one of the few hunters who'd managed to maintain a friendship with the eldest of the Winchester clan throughout the years.

"Boys," Bobby nodded to them. "You do what you can with the girl, you know her best."

"I'm not going to trust them down there alone with another demon -- no disrespect," the man nodded to Dean. Most of the hunters seemed to hold Dean in better regard than his taciturn father and demonic little brother. "But you've got family in all this."

"Then I'll go too," Bobby conceded peacefully. "You know you can trust me." He nodded to the one hunter, then also to the rest of the room.

Dean swallowed, not positive it was going to sell. The hunters nodded to each other, murmured amongst themselves, and consented grudgingly, and Dean let a sigh of relief drift from his nose, and tried not to let how uncertain he felt show.

They moved back downstairs right away, because there was no good reason to stand around and inflame the group's need to hunt any more than they already had. Bobby moved down after them, shutting the door. He paused there, at the top.

"You boys seem to have found yourselves a pretty mess right here," he said, with a upward turning of his lips that wasn't so much a smile as a tightness.

"Didn't go lookin' for it," Dean promised, looking up the staircase at his dad's old friend. He smiled, but there was no cheer in it, something fatalistic and resolved. "It found us."

"S'not entirely true, now," Bobby said, turning from the door and making his way down the stairs.

Sam pursed his lips a bit.

Bobby paused and looked at him, stopping almost at the bottom.

"...can't say I don't see you different now, son," Bobby said quietly, in an almost gentle tone. He was speaking only to Sam, though the words were audible to Dean as well. "Can't say I could see you like they do, though, neither. I remember you playin' with Rumsfeld, when you was small. If he trust you, I trust you."

Sam nodded tightly, eyes darting to the ground. It was more than he had the right to ask for, but less than he wanted. He couldn't stop wanting these very human things, even though he tried.

"...good enough for me," Dean said. He didn't want to draw a gun on Bobby. Sam needed family, right now, and he needed what few family friends they had.

\----

Emeline woke up groggy and disoriented. She wasn't a coward like Chris, and she didn't shrink in the face of the three hunters sitting on boxes and stools in front of her cell. She was a huddled figure, dirt smudges on her clothes, her blonde hair a tangled mess. She swore at Sam in French and English, and at first she was recalcitrant, and threatening.

They told her there were forty hunters upstairs. What telekinesis she had wouldn't stop them for long. They told her they were the only ones willing to speak to her and bargain. She recognized reluctantly that they were the best chance she had, even if they could be exaggerating the truth.

Dean made his pitch, and Emeline trembled, folding her arms protectively over her swelling stomach, lips stained with pink lipstick a day faded pressed together thin.

It was difficult for Sam not to feel pity for her. He knew, logically, that she was something cold and feral. Something evil. But he watched her on the floor, hugging her stomach, and he picked up one of the extra blankets, and moved to place it around her shoulders, crouching down before her and making eye contact with her.

"...Can you tell me where the others are, Emeline? Where they're meeting up?" He spoke in the same careful tone he'd always had when questioning people, looking at her like he knew the whole of her and could be depended on, despite his betrayal of their cabal.

Emeline looked at him, and her blue eyes were ancient, but the fear within them was mortal, and the darkness in her self absorbed. Sam's gaze was unrelenting, and before long, she buckled underneath it.

"...they're in Mississippi. Zaphyr Hill, Mississippi."

He smiled a little and nodded, sitting down in front of her. He could hear Bobby behind him with a pad of paper and a pen. Sam secured the blanket around her shoulders.

"...And the others."

Emeline startled at the question. She hadn't realized Sam had made that particular logical leap.

"...you'll kill me if I tell you, won't you?" she accused. "You won't need me anymore."

Sam shook his head slowly.

"Your baby. It's human. But I can't make any promises for all the hunters upstairs if you don't do what they've asked of you. It'll keep you in their good graces."

"You don't know that," she challenged. "You don't _know_ it's human. And you killed those other girls, and some of _them_ \--..." Her voice broke off with an edge of hysteria, though she still stared into Sam's eyes.

Dean realized what she was talking about. Hearing her baby was human wasn’t good news for the demon.

"You're right. We don't _know_ it's human. But nobody's gonna know either way if you're six feet under."

Emeline wilted, eyes flickering to Dean. She drew in a shaky breath.

"I can find them...” she said bitterly. “If they get killed by _humans_ , they deserve to die."

"Then give me what you know, girl," Bobby said, not unkindly, and he began to write.

\----

It didn't take long for the hunters to break up. It was unnatural to them to all be in one place like that, and for so long. They worked better in small groups, and so they scattered.

Information would be disseminated to other areas of the globe, and, in some cases, some of the hunters who'd gathered in Colorado would be flying out to do their business. Mildred, the owner of the house, would stay there as a relay for info, which could be routed to John through Bobby.

Sam kept his own copy of the groups that Emeline had given to them. They couldn't be confident it was _every_ group, but there were eighteen in total, not counting the one killed the day before.

John made his way down to the basement, and paused as Sam and Dean shifted apart from their comfortably leaning positions against one another, before finishing his descent.

"What's up?" Dean asked, not letting any awkward silence set in.

"There're more, you know," John said with a slow sigh, leaning against the railing.

"More?" Sam queried after clearing his throat.

"More demons. These are just the ones he made twenty-four years ago. There're others. The ones I've been tracking these last couple of years. I have the names, the addresses."

Sam paused, then his eyes widening in dawning realization. And horror.

"They're children!"

"They're demons."

"They have no idea what they are, who they are--...they're just babies!"

"Doesn't change what they did, who they really are. They'll grow up to become the same as these ones."

"I didn't," Sam challenged, and instantly regretted it. John looked away and uncomfortable silence descended.

"...he's right, Dad. There's no guarantee these kids'll turn out to be killers. Didn't--..." Dean stopped to think and make sure he was absolutely right. "Didn't Sam's powers get turned on when our big shot came back?"

"Yes," John responded. "But there's nothing to suggest that their memories won't come back independent of that. One bad dream, or maybe years down the line...It's too much of a risk."

"You're talkin' about killin' _babies_ ," Dean protested, gripping the edge of the couch, stomach lurching. "I'm not sayin' they're innocent, but I can hardly get the taste'a killin' the _evil_ ones outta my mouth."

"You don't have to take care of it, Dean...You have bigger things to worry about. I'm going to give the names to the hunters. I asked a few to stay around..." John didn't look happy about it, but facts were what they were. He'd asked the ones from the group he knew could stomach it.

Dean clenched his jaw, and he knew he wasn't arguing on account of a bunch of demons he didn't know, wrapped in swaddling blankets and gurgling all in their cribs. He was arguing on account of Sam, alive beside him and what if somebody had taken away _his_ cuckoo's egg of a brother? 

It wouldn't save any human children. They were already dead.

John was treating them like adults. He was telling them what was going on, like Sam had always wanted. Dean would rather he'd take it back and leave him ignorant. He didn’t want that blood on his hands.

John turned, finally, after the moment turned too long, and took the first two steps before Sam's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, stopping his progress. John looked up at the door to the main level, then slowly turned enough to look over his shoulder at his son. Sam's head was hung.

"...I'm sorry," Sam got out, finally, and almost barked it out. He looked up at his father with a piece of desperation. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-- "

John turned fully, to face him, lifting his free hand to cover Sam's forehead and eyes, in a mimicry of the way he used to lay washcloths there when they were small and sick. Sam's face remained up turned, but gaze hidden from John's view. John felt his son's tears on his palm before he watched then crawl out from under his hand.

“Yes, you did," John said lowly, and Sam made a strange, strangled noise, though he didn't open his eyes. John patted one of Sam's cheeks lightly as he drew his hand back. "...but you're a good man, anyhow," he said, and let go, turning around and walking back up the stairs. He shut the door behind him.

Dean laughed, but his laughter was weak. He rested his elbows on his thighs, let his head hang down between his knees. When his shoulders shook, it wasn't with mirth. 

It wasn't like they didn't love each other. Three men, all fucked up. Bound by blood and twenty four years of hardship. That bond, that love wasn't in question. So Dean couldn't pin down for himself just why they couldn't be a family like they used to be, all told.

There were no tear tracks when Dean pushed himself upright, palms against his jeans, and he looked to Sam.

Sam half turned, looking back at his brother, taking in a slow breath. Neither of them looked like they had a lot of hope left -- just a stubborn desire to win, somehow, someway.

Dean glanced at Emeline, curled morosely in the corner of her cell. He almost envied her single minded selfishness. As long as she survived, she had no other cares -- no human dependencies. Dean couldn't imagine what life would be like, living that way.

It would be so easy, so simple not to care. Not to go through these human emotions, not to have to _feel_ for other people and want them to be happy.

But even that, Sam knew, was selfish. He wanted them to be happy so that he didn't have to feel guilty. He wanted them to be happy so that he could be. Maybe it didn't sound selfish, on the outside, but it was.

"...it's because of you," Sam croaked out, looking at his brother from the first step of the stairs. "If it hadn't been for you...I'm sure I would have given in." He shook his head, too-bright eyes looking away to nowhere. "They all wanted some way out. An understanding of what they were, why they were...the way they were." He managed to look back to Dean again. "Those hunters asked why I'm any different...I'm not. I'm not...special. Or more important. I'm not exceptional. You are." He smiled a little, fragile and bleak. "I'm your demon."

Dean didn't want to hear Sam's words, if only to ease the burden of being asked to believe one more good thing about himself. Dean wanted to believe Sam _was_ special, in the way anyone who ever raised a child wanted to believe _their_ kid was an exception to every rule. 

"You believe that?" He smiled his own, self-conscious smile. It sounded pretty out there.

"I know it," Sam responded, with his usual self-confidence veiled under the grief-softened tone of his voice.

Dean shook his head, let it hang, sheepish, because he didn't take compliments real well.

"...you come over here," he chastened him, at the point where words always failed him.

Sam's smile didn't fade away, though it looked like a small breeze might steal it at any moment, and took the step down on to the even concrete of the basement floor. He walked to stand in front of Dean obediently, and it had been a good few long years since he'd done anything obediently.

Dean smirked up at him, that long way from Sam's belt to his eyes. He was proud of him. Proud of the way he'd turned out. He'd been proud since Sam stood up to their father and stormed out of that Motel 6, and he was prouder now than he'd ever been. He pushed Sam's shirts up, found himself the nearest, taut stretch of skin and pressed his lips against Sam's body, against the shadow of his navel and that dark, soft trail of hair on his stomach.

He was proud of Sam, and this was how he told him, a hand steady on Sam's hips and his lips and his breath on his skin.

Sam looked down at his brother, stuttering in a breath and his gaze softening to warmth, and his large hands were lifted, placed on either side of Dean's head.

He remembered laying on a bed in a motel, long ago, somewhere in their hazy past laid across state lines, and Dean's head in his middle, blowing air against his stomach and making him shriek and laugh. He didn't remember how old he was, but it must have been a good long while ago, by the youth and happiness he remembered in Dean's expression, by how small his brother had been -- but at the time how big and fearless Sam'd seen him. He remembered Dean kissing his belly and he remembered being settled by his brother's patience as he put him to bed three, four times. Remembered the way Dean'd always gave in and crawled into bed with him. 

Sam's bandaged knuckles grazed the edges of his brother's jaw, felt his brother's lips against the dip of his navel and thought that only here, through the omphalus that had once connected them to their mother, were they were brothers through and through. Dean had a mark just the same on his own stomach, under the tattoo, and it didn't much matter that inside, Sam was a demon, that the real Sam was long dead, because here, right there, they were brothers.

Dean rested his forehead against Sam's stomach, and he remembered a different motel, the first night Sam had let him inside his body, and a similar position. Things had been bad, then, too, and at the time he hadn't been able to imagine how they'd get worse.

"When'd we get to decide who's people...?"

Sam moved slowly to kneel, between Dean's legs, his hands still cradling his head.

"...I don't think we do," Sam said, regret in his expression. They didn't make the calls, not any more. Sam was spared out of a lingering sense of companionship, some kind of hunter's mercy, not because he’d been pardoned.

"I know a year ago I woulda been right there with'em." Dean knew the hunters didn't consider it a homicide to kill these hybrids. Hell, he didn't think he did...except...(It kept coming back to that: except. _Except_.) "I don't know what I'm thinkin'. I'm thinkin'...I knew those people. They were all _assholes_ , but I knew 'em." He let his head rest in Sam’s hands.

One of Sam's hands ran under the line of Dean's jaw, turning his head up to look at him.

"...We still have a ways to go." Sam paused, then leaned in, until their foreheads were pressed together, and he shut his eyes. "We still have a ways to go, you and I, but we're not out yet...Not yet. We're not done. We're not done yet."

Dean listened to Sam, and he let him hold him together. He didn't want to think that, in the end, it didn't matter if those dead bodies in that field were people or not, or that Sam could've been one of them. He wanted that to be important. He didn't want to look at it as a zero sum game. But Sam was asking him to let it go, and so he did. He put those throat-slit, bloody bodies out of mind, and told himself _at least he still had his brother_.

His unsteady hands slid over Sam's shoulders to cup Sam's head, and keep them there, together. Sam’s voice went on, quiet and steady.

"We're not done yet."


	25. Chapter 25

[September 16, 2007] 

Sam sat on the couch in Mildred’s basement and looked over at the stairs in front of him. Jessica looked back.

Dean’s head rested heavy on his thigh, the weight a comfort in the sleepless early hours of the morning, and Sam’s hand moved back and forth over his brother’s hair. Dean snorted and jerked a little in his sleep. Jess looked down at the older of the Winchester brothers as he moved, spoke to him softly.

‘ _What you want isn’t always what you get._ ’

“He said that you were there. That he saw you while I was in my coma,” Sam said, and though her eyes flicked to him, she didn’t respond. It was okay. He was used to that. He remembered the way she looked in Canada, standing in the fields of grain with her hair almost the same tone, flickering around like the wind could move her. The scent of ozone clung to Sam’s skin almost every minute, these days. 

“I wish I knew why you were here…I wish you could talk to me,” Sam looked down at his brother, then back at his dead lover. “…you don’t know how much I miss you, Jess…I could really use some advice right now, you know?” He smiled in a hollow gesture to blink back any more tears that might come. “Calm before the storm, and all.”

‘ _You have to look. You have to see these things._ ’

“So you say, my love…so you say,” Sam nodded, and he knew better than to rail at ghosts. He knew that no matter who they were, once, they were just a figment, something that remained of a person, like their bones. And like all remains, they weren’t the same as that person. As much as he wished it, Jessica wasn’t here with him now. There was just a message, a last recording, playing for him over and over as she flickered in the stale basement air, unable to reach through the veil so well as she did in dreams.

He shut his eyes, leaning his head back.

“Calm before the storm.”

\----

[September 22, 2007] 

The air of the hunter’s mountain home was oppressive.

Sam and Dean did their share of help around the house, but, for the most part, Mildred ignored them. There were still a couple of hunters staying around, and there was a clear divide between the men staying in the basement and those who were staying on the first floor. 

It had to be decided what would happen to Emeline. She wouldn’t be killed, because there was the distinct likelihood that her child would be born human. After a few rounds of discussions it was decided that Bobby would take her -- after all, his place was empty and plenty remote. She was moved up to Bobby’s truck, looking shaky and unsure. Sam, feeling responsible, tried to reassure her, which he knew was stupid (she was a demon, after all).

He helped her into the truck, her looking down at him for a moment before Bobby shut the door and Sam stepped back. He bit at his lower lip, watching Bobby pack up and talk with Mildred, shaking her hand firmly and then bidding farewell to the boys.

Once Emeline was gone there was no reason for Sam and Dean to stay. They headed out the next day, Sam trading his cell phone number with Mildred in case she heard anything that he didn’t. 

Dean’s relief was written on his face as he steered the battered blue Mazda down the rocky mountain road. He didn’t complain about the lurching potholes or the way the car struggled through muddy depressions. Just commented, matter-of-fact:

“Need to buy some new tires.”

He’d still sleep with a knife under his pillow and a gun two steps away, but he’d sleep a whole lot easier without grizzled men and women lurking upstairs harboring homicidal intentions towards Sam and the girl under his protection.

Their hands were linked together on the median, without comment.

They were already more than half way to October, and life felt like a ticking clock, shaving off hours and seconds in the back of Sam’s head as they drew closer to that inescapable point.

It made it difficult to enjoy the time, everything tense and everything difficult, but they were stubborn.

\----

Two identical figures stared up at the sky and it moved over them at an unreal rate, stars turning, flaring, dying, bursting in explosions of light that rained down somewhere on this unnatural landscape.

Sam’s elbow brushed elbow of the memories, and they lay as if they’d grown up watching the sky together, just like this.

“I need to ask a favor of you,” Sam said finally, voice a little strained.

“What could I possibly give you?”

“I need to know how to control--…I need to have control over the things I can do. I need to be able to see the future when I _want_ to, not just when it hits me. I need to be able to move things at will, not just when I’m freaking out. I need to be able to…to control my _powers_ ,” he forced the word out. “And I know that it has to be in my memories.”

“You think you can play it like that? Pick and chose the things you want, leave the dirty bits? I could tell you everything, but that’s not what we want,” the memories replied, and they finally turned their head to look at Sam. “Is it?”

“No,” Sam shook his head, shutting his eyes for only a second. “No. I don’t want that. I thought it was alright to kill a little boy. I’ll be that person--...” He paused, realizing he wasn’t so much a person. “I’ll be that thing, won’t I?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Then why am I _here_?” Sam sighed in frustration, rolling over and sitting up to look down at the memories. “Why am I here, talking to you, if you can’t _tell_ me anything?”

“I don’t bring you here, you come here,” the memories responded. “Or maybe you bring me here, to this place where you always are. But you’re wrong, if you think I can’t tell you anything. I can tell you everything. But there is no middle. No neither-here-nor-there. You can’t be two creatures at once. You can’t just take back the good memories. We are one whole life. If you chose to have that life, you take all of it. This life you live is merely _part_ of that whole.” 

It was at that moment that Sam realized that this figure in front of him did not just represent the memories of the life he had before he became Sam Winchester, but all the memories since. Everything he’d done that he still remembered, everything in this human life. His dreams, his passions, his goals. Everything he’d done, everything he liked and disliked. Even the books he enjoyed. All of him, his entire life, from whatever rainy day in Hell he’d been born on, to the day he took Sam Winchester’s innocent life, to today. All one long line, leading through so many things, so many other lives and worlds, leading down to a single point.

“One inevitable conclusion,” the memories said, and Sam knew it all through him, even if he couldn’t envision that conclusion, that what the memories said were true.

“Because I saw it. Before I became Sam. I saw how it was all going to end, in a vision. That’s why I did all this.”

“No,” the memories shook their head gently, like a mother correcting her child. “No human life is that simple, that predictable. You took that life because for the first time ever, the future was unclear. But you know. You have always _known_ , that there is always only one conclusion to all things. Time cannot fracture. The worlds cannot split. There is no alternate route where you chose differently, no universe beyond the one you live in. You know this where others don’t because you can see it. You have seen time, all the past, and all the future, a Grey City lined with houses, with no end in sight.”

_"It just keeps going on and on..." He stopped, staring down at the endless street. There was no horizon line - the earth didn't curve. It just went on, flat and straight, finally fading into some grey haze where the eye could no longer distinguish the identical white houses. Sam looked at the street with an inescapable dread, like he didn't want to be there, but he had given in. He couldn't get out._

_"On and on and on..."_

Sam’s eyes tightened, grasping to that almost memory. The dread of a world that didn’t end. Never changed. Never altered. Just one straight line, unerring and unflinching, no matter the horrors it brought. A world gone mad.

Sam shut his eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re not supposed to. That’s the point,” the memories responded, lifting one finger. “That’s what it means to be human. To go on forever. You cannot be two things at once. Don’t you think that humans would have kept the powers they had if they could have? That is the definition of sacrifice.”

“I don’t have _time_ for this bullshit, my brother is going to _die_.”

“The answers are right in front of you.”

“But I can’t _see_ them,” Sam protested, gesturing desperate.

“You of all creatures have seen how it ends. You have dictated much of it.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. Listening to the memories was like tempting insanity. He could feel it creeping at the edges of himself, ideas and concepts too beyond him to comprehend but _there_ , still there. There were hints of things that he needed to know, if only he could figure it out.

He remembered clearly his vision at Joshua’s house, finding the Magus, finding the sigil of the moon. A cyclical pattern.

Cyclical time.

“I can dictate the future through visions,” Sam finally surmised, a little piece of himself gone to understand the meaning of things. He could want to know something and have a vision about it, and make the future he _wanted_ come true, just by wanting it. The memories looked pleased.

“Haven’t you wondered why you were spared when so many others weren’t?” the memories confirmed. “You were forgiven.”

“That’s why I won that fight with Pierce. It wasn’t because I was better, or faster…He couldn’t see the future. And you saved me.”

“You saved yourself.”

“What about _him_? What about the demon? Can he see it too?”

“That is something that even we don’t know.” The memories looked honestly unsure, shaking their head. “We knew how to move, where to be. We saw all of time, from the very beginning to the very end, and knew what to do. But Legion is still beyond us.”

“…I need to save my brother. I need to save Dean from him.”

“And what do you propose?”

“I’ll give you my memories, of this life.”

“That is no boon. You cannot give me something I already have.”

“You remember, but you don’t _feel_. You said so yourself. If you give me this, then I’ll let you know how it feels. To be human. Know what it feels like.”

“….Yes.”

\----

[September 28, 2007] 

John was leaned against the side of his truck when Sam and Dean pulled up in the Mazda, parking on the gravel lot next to the roadside diner.

John kicked the dirt absently before pushing himself upright, walking towards his sons as they exited the car.

"Boys," he nodded to them.

Dean learned, in that moment, how people felt when they were bringing home their fuck buddy to meet their family. Dean had that nervous apprehension that he had one chance to sell it and after that his father's perspective would be forever colored towards the relationship. It was a stupid, illogical feeling, because John's sentiments had already dug in on firm disapproval. Because there were extenuating circumstances in this scenario, like Sam, in fact, _being_ family, and John plainly not interested in his boys being _that_ country. (And then there was that whole demon thing.)

He tried not to let it all show on his face, nodded back to his father, pushing the Mazda's keys down in his jeans pocket.

This time there were no life or death situations to smooth things over. Nothing that said they had to get along or else their mission would be endangered. It was just the Winchesters.

Getting together for dinner.

Sam ended up being the one to move first, once the awkward greeting had extended into an even more awkward silence, and decided to walk up to the diner, jogging up the steps with an easy lope. He held the door open for his father and brother.

Dean knew what this was about. He knew it before the pungent scent of too-much-grease and open griddle cooking assaulted his nostrils in that familiar old way.

John Winchester didn't just ask two people to step away from research, put themselves together, and eat more than Arbys’curly fries and roast beef sandwiches sitting on the floor because every surface had been covered with books and notepads. It wasn't in his nature to think to see his sons and think _Been years since we had a family dinner_.

Not unless his first born son was going to bleed out on a ceiling and go up like Chicago in 1871, few weeks time.

They found a corner booth in the back, with two sides against a wall, and sat down -- John on one side, the boys on the other. John sighed a long sigh, one of discomfort, but he didn't comment. 

Sam kept his thigh against Dean's, like some kind of leaning post that he could draw some peace from.

"I heard things're going well," John started.

"Yeah...Aside from the group in Turkey and the one in Sudan, we've heard reports from all the rest. Not all... _good_ reports. But still," Sam responded with a small shrug. “There are eleven groups that we know for certain have been…taken care of.”

"Couple of them got warnin' before they got hit. Some of them got the possessed involved..." Dean picked up his fork, idle, tapping the tip of it against the table. "Tell you what, that demon's not gonna be real happy to see _us_ come November."

"Although we're not _sure_ he'll come, anymore," Sam insisted, giving Dean a look that told John that the two of them had had this conversation already. "Maybe with all we've done, he'll go back -- recoup."

"No," John said, shaking his head. He straightened as a waitress came over to them. "Just coffee and water, please." He motioned to the boys as well, ordering for them. The waitress nodded and exchanged a brief pleasantry before walking away. "No," John continued. "He'll come. He'll still come. Demons follow patterns just like everything else does. He'll be there."

"That's a load off," Dean drawled sarcastically, puffing his cheeks and blowing out air, considering the tapping tip of his fork. He spent a lot of his waking hours throwing out false bravado to help Sam hang in there, but right now they had about five percent of a plan and it'd be his life ending on some ceiling somewhere.

John huffed a small laugh, leaning back against his seat.

"We've screwed this thing’s plans up plenty of times...Just gotta do it one more time. We know it's coming, know where it'll be, what its plans are -- there's no reason we won't take it down, son," John reassured, though a part of him wanted to hear himself say it.

Dean waved it off, thumb pressing the fork against his palm. He sat it down on the table.

"I'm not worried. Who's worried?" He shot a suspicious look at Sam. " _You_ worried?"

"Yeah, gee, _just a bit_ ," Sam shot back, giving Dean a dirty look in return.

Dean rolled his eyes, like that was _just like Sam_ , always _worrying_.

He looked down at the menu, because he wanted...some kind of sandwich, before he left. Something made of sandwich. Maybe a fried bacon and egg sandwich. No. Totally the chicken sandwich with the BBQ-ranch dressing. That had bacon, too. (And cucumbers.)

John watched them and half smiled, their conversation like any other he'd seen before. Like they were at any other diner at any other time, like Sam was just Sam, and they weren't brothers who slept together, and Dean wasn't going to die on a ceiling like his mother before him. 

The waitress brought their drinks, and John picked up his coffee gratefully, sipping at the hot, bitter liquid.

"Dad," Sam asked.

"Yeah?" John responded casually, setting his cup down again.

"Do you have the Colt with you?"

John paused, then nodded once.

"Not on my person, of course, but..."

"We need you to give it to us."

"Oh?" John raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"Cause we need it to kill the demon."

"And is there a reason I won't be able to?" John asked, leaning forward against the table, hands around his coffee mug. He had that expression he got when he knew the answer to a question but asked it anyway just to make the other person uncomfortable, because they knew they had to say something John didn't want to hear. Sam had the decency to look awkward.

"...because you won't be there."

"Oh? And what's keeping me?"

"Us. Me. I don't want you there, Dad." It wasn't an easy conversation, and Sam had known it wouldn't be. Still had to be said though, no matter the circumstances between them.

"I have a right to be there, Sam, I've been hunting this thing your entire life--"

"And that's why you can't be there. This isn't about killing the demon, Dad. I mean...it'd be a god damned relief if we did, but come November third, I just want Dean to be alive. The rest is icing."

"You don't think I don't have the same worries?"

"No, I know you do. _Now_. But you lose perspective when it comes to this thing, Dad. You get a _real_ bad case of tunnel vision, and honestly, I can't have you messing things up for us in the middle of a fire fight when Dean's life is on the line." Sam swallowed down his own nerves at talking so brazenly to his father, but it was just the plain truth. He wasn't going to take any chance that Dean wasn't going to see the sun rise on November third. He just couldn't. And he was willing to do just about anything to make sure that never happened, even saying things like this to John Winchester.

"Hold on just a moment here," John said gruffly, edging on anger. "This has been twenty four years in coming and there's no way I'm not going to be there. You're wrong if you think I can't think clear -- "

"I've got a bullet hole in my shoulder that says otherwise, Dad," Sam said simply and halted the conversation. It was the only card he had up his sleeve, in this. Sam pursed his lips, then continued more quietly. "...just is what it is."

John didn’t say anything, just let out a long breath. The waitress came to take their orders.

Dean glanced surreptitiously from Sam to his father, and looked up at the waitress with that ten gallon smile.

"I'm gonna try that barbeque-ranch chicken sandwich." He let his eyes flicker over her fit figure, that little apron tied around her waist. "And bring me somethin' sweet on the side..."

The waitress seemed to be having a little problem uncapping her pen.

"Our pie today is--...cherry." She had to glance and check. 

"Surprise me," Dean flirted, winking easy as breathing.

"Just the soup," Sam ordered easily, and John followed him up with something equally non-descript. The waitress jotted it down and moved away from the table again.

"...alright," John said, leaning back and putting one arm over the back of his side of the booth. Sam looked surprised. "Alright. I'll stay out of the way." He looked to Sam. "...You take care of your brother, understand?"

"Yes, sir," Sam nodded, and looked relieved.

The exchange confused Dean on some back level where John had never said that to Sam before in Sam's life. Dean wasn't the damsel. _Sam_ was the damsel. How many times had Sam gotten choked or captured by something in his lifetime? Like forty.

He sipped his coffee and tried to look manly about it and gave them a little bit of the stink eye.

Sam took a sip of his coffee and caught that stink eye and elbowed Dean in the side.

Dean's eyes widened a little and he jabbed Sam right back. His brow creased with exasperation.

"Dude, you two are actin' like I'm gonna be totally defenseless."

"Well...you are. Pretty much, I mean," Sam responded with a shrug. "At least I have...demon powers and whatnot." Sam looked to the side and had the grace to look like he was talking out of his ass.

John smiled a little around the lip of his coffee as he took a sip, watching them bicker.

"Yeah, my freakin' hero," Dean grumbled. "'Cause that guy's not gonna have _demon powers_."

"Hey, I'm not saying he won't be _better_ , but in a descending pyramid, it's definitely him, me, _then_ you," Sam pointed at Dean around his coffee.

"Guess me bein' the good lookin' one, the best shot, able to kick your ass, and not a _woman_ , you had to pick up the slack somewhere." Dean grinned big and smug and took another sip of the pitch black stuff in his cup.

Not a whole lot had changed since John last knew them. There was just the frequent sexual intercourse.

The food came, and Sam picked at Dean's and got his hand forked. The conversation halted in places. There were things that no one wanted to talk about. But they steered their way around it, bit by bit.

When the food was finished and the dishes taken away, Dean tipped the waitress, whose name was Shelly, somewhat more than she actually deserved for a meal that cost about ten dollars...catching her hand and pressing it folded into her palm.

Oh, yeah. He still had it. (He had to _check_ seeing as he'd taken it in the back door.) Look at that girl blush.

Sam just rolled his eyes, and they walked outside, John trailing them. 

Of course, it was worse in the parking lot, standing on the uneven gravel and knowing they had to say goodbye, but Winchesters had never been good at the emotional thing, especially not like this.

Especially when it could be the last things they said to one another. They were better at denying things like that.

Dean could feel his emotions knotting in his throat. He knew why his father had been absent, communicating findings over the phone while he kept up hunting. Dean knew it hurt his father to look at him. Look at him and know he might lose him, and with him Sam. Sam -- maybe finally pushed far enough. 

Dean looked down at the dirty gravel at his feet, trying to find something to say. There were things he wanted to apologize for, and things that were too much to say.

John took the final steps, because he was the oldest here, he was their father and it was his job to do things first. He placed one large, time roughened hand on the side of Dean's neck, keeping his son's head bent downwards as he spoke.

"...Handled all this better'n I ever could, Dean. You're not meant to die in this, you're not mean to die, period -- not yet. I can't put you in the grave, son...So you do whatever you have to do. All the things we lost, I--..." John shook his head and stopped, getting sidetracked once again by his anger towards the thing he'd hunted so long. This wasn't about that. "I am proud of you. Everything you done, everything you done for me and for Samm-...Doesn't matter, though. Even if I weren't, you'd still be my son, and I love you." He leaned down, and he kissed the crown of Dean's head, holding him there firmly for a moment before drawing back and letting him go completely. "You stay safe," he said with a pained sigh, and lifted a hand to wipe his lips. "And wear less of that crap in your hair. You're a man, not a woman."

Dean laughed, but his laughter was weak, and he wasn't crying, but his eyes were wet. He ran a hand through his gel stiff hair self-consciously. He sucked on his dry lower lip and looked back at his father. For the first time, the prospect of dying actually seemed real. He could imagine himself with his back to the wall, sliding onto that ceiling. He could imagine the fire on his skin.

"...Dad. I said somethin' to you in that truck I never shoulda said. And I'm sorry." His voice was breathless, and he blinked back the tears in his eyes.

"...I told you to take care of your brother, Dean. You said just what you shoulda," John shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. 

Sam was waiting, and John looked to the side, their eyes meeting.

If anything could be more awkward than what'd already been said...This had to be it. What could possibly be said that hadn't been?

John moved to his second son, and this time he didn't have any words, not even rough ones. The last time they'd spoken had been on the stairs in that basement in Colorado, and that had been hard enough, and only two sentences.

Sam figured he owed him one.

He stepped up and embraced his father, winding long arms around him and using all his relentless determination to do this, to close the gap that had always been so uncloseable.

"Bye, Dad," he said, all he could find to say, and John, the shorter of the two men, didn't embrace him in return, but rested against him. There wasn't much else.

Dean watched the two of them, heart in his throat, and pretended he _wasn't_ a woman -- Sam taller and broader, so that even John (bigger than Dean) looked slight in his arms.

Dean wanted his dad there. There was a security he always felt hunting with John, like his father would make everything right, no matter how shot to Hell it seemed. But he knew better. His father was no mythical hero. Just the man in Sam's arms, now, starting to show his years.

"Take care," Sam said, trying to find the strength in himself to do all of this, to do what needed to be done. 

John made to move away, but Sam's determined arms held him still, and after a moment he gave in to it and finally held his son. They moved apart a long moment later, and John clapped his hand against Sam's shoulder weakly.

"...you too, son," he said, and moved away. Sam watched the older man wander away, shoulders bowed and head bent, and he kept himself from blinking.

Dean tossed Sam the keys to the Mazda when Sam finally looked away. God knew he'd run them straight off the road or have to pull over one mile down it. Dean was an emotional person. And, right now, he felt like someone had driven a fist into his stomach.

Sam caught the keys and held them tight in his hand, taking in a slow breath.

He looked at Dean and he gave him a weak smile, because he could see his brother was trying as hard as he was just to walk, and he turned and got into the Mazda, shifting into the driver's seat and adjusting it back to accommodate his long legs.

John went to the Sierra, and he took out the Colt, hidden inside the cab’s bench seat. He looked down at it a minute, and then he gave it to Dean, nodding firm and saying nothing.

Dean took the gun and he walked around the front of the car to climb in beside Sam, pulling the door shut. He rubbed at his eyes with his palm, lower lip pressed firm to keep it from giving away a tremor. He wasn't afraid to cry in front of Sam. It wasn't that. He'd heard John's words and the pride in his father's voice. It didn't seem right, seemed ungrateful, to cry about that, when he'd been waiting to hear them his whole life.

Sam put the keys in the ignition, but then he leaned back, looking over to his brother, unsure.

"...Dean?" Sam licked his lips. "What did you mean? About what you said in the truck?"

Dean stared down at the ratty car carpet underneath his boots -- detached, overwhelmed -- a ghost of a smirk creeping onto his lips.

"I told him I'd kill him if he tried hurtin' you again." His tongue flickered across his lips. "...maybe not in those words."

Sam's eyes widened. 

It wasn't what he was expecting to hear.

When Sam and John had argued in the past, Dean'd always come down firmly on John's side. There'd been plenty of fights, back then, between Dean and Sam about that. 

It wasn't like Sam ever wanted Dean in that position, to have to _do_ that, but still. All the same, it was...important.

Sam reached across the median for his brother's hand.

Dean let him take it, felt Sam's fingers close firm, but it was a minute before he squeezed back. The smirk had faded, and he exhaled a long breath, a wince passing across his eyes. His father had forgiven him, and he had to live with that.

Sam's hand shifted, moved until their fingers laced. He paused and lifted their hands, elbows resting on the median, and pressed his lips against their knuckles.

There really was no way to say ' _Thanks for threatening to kill Dad for me_ ,' even in Winchester-speak.

Dean's lips stretched at the corners. It was too bleak to be a smile. He understood the sentiment, the importance -- what Sam couldn't say because it cut too close to the quick. It was the cruelty of the lives they led that it could be said at all.

\----

[October 3, 2007]

Sam walked into the doorway from the bathroom into their motel room, drying his hands absently as he watched his brother’s sprawled form on the bed. They were busy searching for a good place to stage this fight, but they weren’t having a lot of luck. They’d considered maybe going somewhere without a ceiling, like out in the woods or something, but it was pretty certain the demon’d just find a different way to kill Dean. So once that was established, they decided they’d need somewhere that had plenty of room to move and fight in, but wasn’t too close to civilization. It was all getting kind of frustrating.

“What do you think about a second date?” Sam asked, spontaneously, with a small smile. 

Dean pursed his lips and clicked off _The Young and the Restless_. He flashed Sam a come-hither grin. (Their sex life had graduated to ‘actually existent’ now that they weren’t shacked up on Mildred’s couch.)

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Where would you like to go?” Sam asked, responding to that grin by coming thither. He crawled over the bed, towards his sibling. “We went to the kinda place I’d like last time.”

Dean stretched out a hand and guided Sam towards him, dragging his legs up to rest against the backs of Sam’s thighs as Sam slipped one long leg over his waist to straddle his body. He pulled Sam into an impassioned kiss, dragging his teeth over Sam’s lower lip. When they broke apart, he sucked the taste of Sam off his top lip, and then the bottom, and studied that well-defined visage.

“…I wanna go to the zoo.”

“…the zoo?” Sam raised an eyebrow, with an amused smirk. Not the answer he was expecting. Dean kinda sounded like a five year old when he said that, and despite Sam’s amusement at the possible teasing value, it made him pretty happy to hear it. Dean didn’t often get to be carefree. If he ever was at all.

Sam leaned down into another kiss, this one slower. He enjoyed it, pulling at his brother’s lips languidly.

“See animals,” Dean murmured -- mused, and slid his tongue against Sam’s. “Educate little kids about homosexuals…”

“Just tell them it’s okay so long as it’s with their brother,” Sam murmured with a bit of a smirk, before his tongue was teased out by Dean’s, and Sam’s eyes slid shut, shifting to lay down next to him, half over him.

Dean chuckled, throaty, stroking Sam’s broad side, mirroring Sam’s smirk, his eyelids drooping.

“Never been all the regular places.”

“Yeah, I know…” Sam’s hand drifted over Dean’s chest, in a similar motion. Their childhood wasn’t exactly filled with memories of things like zoos and circuses and amusement parks. It seemed strange and foreign, now that they were older, now that they were like this, all bent up and waiting to die, but why not? Why not enjoy whatever it was the world had to offer. Sam’d been to a zoo before, with Jess, but he couldn’t think of a reason not to go with his brother. Maybe play some of their stupid pranks. Sam shifted and settled against Dean’s shoulder, getting comfortable. “Alright then. Sounds like a plan.”

“Better treat me like a lady,” Dean warned, playfully, lips tickling Sam’s high hairline. He couldn’t escape the sadness in his voice, or the melancholy drifting through his stomach, but he could take them with him where he went, and they could go to the kind of place he’d never been.

\----

[October 8, 2007] 

They ended up driving into Denver, because it was nearby. Big cities weren’t always their thing, but it was nice, occasionally, to just be part of the faceless masses.

Sam felt a bit ridiculous, headed into the Denver Zoo, but that was just his old stubborn self, and he pushed it back. There wasn’t time to be crotchety anymore. Had to take every moment available.

Dean admitted to himself that when he’d suggested _Let’s go to the zoo_ , he’d failed to grasp the specifics of what that meant. He remembered googling ideas for first dates and being excited at the _idea_ of a zoo, but he more or less had no idea what a zoo entailed, beyond disembodied television images. Bars were his first and last stop for downtime pleasure, and he’d never worked a case in a zoo. He thought he remembered a trip to some zoo when he was three or four, but like all memories of that time the images were hazy and fragmented.

The whole complex was neat and ordered, with clean swept sidewalks and stainless steel statues of animals Dean had never, personally, encountered (wait, a bear!) and the stylized buildings accented with bold colors. The entrance was teeming with pedestrians. There were children with their parents and couples and friends and one person with a camera who was engaged with the statues.

Dean looked around, a little dumbfounded, and felt the jagged rift of complete disjunction between himself and ordinary people gaping inside him.

The zoo. It was apparently _very large_.

He tried to be cool about it, because he recognized himself as ripe and vulnerable for some _serious_ taunting, and Sam -- he waited for weakness like a _cat_.

“Big place.” Oh, yeah. That was _good and smooth_.

Sam grinned and leaned in conspiratorially.

“Worried there, _big brother_?” Sam drawled. 

A shivery displeasure prickled up Dean’s spine, oddly arousing, like none of their childhood teasing had ever been.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean blustered, all false confidence. “You think I can’t handle _the zoo_?”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Sam said and snuck a long arm around Dean’s waist, tugging him firmly over to him, against his side as they walked. 

Dean grinned at the closeness, the intimate proximity, always a little rush in public places. He tossed a passing girl, so clearly checking them out, that Joey Tribbiani look; _How you doin’_? She blushed, eyes skirting Sam’s possessive arm, locked around Dean’s body, and Dean felt _accomplished_.

There were signs detailing the attractions along the pathways ahead.

“Road signs?” Dean stared a little incredulous at that one. “This place needs road signs?” He hadn’t even seen any animals yet.

“Hey, it’s a big zoo,” Sam said with a shrug. He wasn’t exactly experienced when it came to normal, but he was at least acclimated. They walked along the fenced lanes, with the big, colorful signs all around, declaring things like ‘ _Make sure to cut the plastic on your six-pack rings so that birds in the wild don’t choke!_ ’ and ‘ _This tree was moved from Pensacola, Florida, and is one of the last of its species of palm tree_ ’. The area’s of the park were themed, as usual, with plant life to match the theme and animals grouped by cultural stereotype. 

They found the big cats. Dean had seen a cougar before, but a Siberian Tiger was somewhat bigger. Scratch that, the animal was _huge_. It was sprawled out on its side in the grass and Dean was too fascinated by the sheer breadth of the thing to bang on the glass and try to wake it up. There were leopards and jaguars. There were maned wolves, which smelled god awful and were not, in fact, wolves, strutting around on beanstalk legs, and also hyenas, who did not specifically look like the ones in _The Lion King_. (Apparently, they, too, were cats.)

Dean didn’t want to stop and read signs and groaned when Sam tried to teach him ‘facts’, but vague awe dawned on his face as they moved through the next exhibit, polar bears swimming in cool water and sea lions sun bathing their fat bodies on the artificial rocks. He _felt_ like a five year old. Like Sam should probably be holding his hand and guiding him paternally from enclosure to enclosure. There was a _huge rainforest_ with _crazy waterfalls_ and _a big fake temple thing_ and Dean was _very excited_ but he tried to keep it to comport himself like a person who hunted demons for a living (despite the fact that he was rapidly backsliding into the experience of the child he never got to be).

Sam found himself more rapt in Dean than anything else, never having gotten to see this side of his brother. He still took his moments, of course, poking Dean in the side or playfully taunting him, like brothers were meant to. He kissed him in public as well -- like brothers definitely weren’t meant to.

But no one knew that here.

They just gave them awkward looks, and someone muttered ‘freaks’ and Sam and Dean laughed, because hell. If only they knew.

Dean discovered, subsequently, that big fake temple things were also _excellent_ make out spots, a cool mist in the air and his hands on his brother’s skin and his back against an elaborately textured concrete wall.

He leaned against the railing and watched gorillas playing together, punching each other’s shoulders and picking each other’s hair like funny-looking, furry, three-hundred-something pound human beings hanging out and chewing the fat, and he experienced a kind of profound, unutterable spiritual revelation which shut him up with a dumb look on his face as the seconds ticked by.

Sam leaned in, nose bumping affectionately against Dean’s jaw, feeling an easy comfort here.

“Having a good time?” he asked softly.

Dean closed his eyes, the heat of Sam’s body radiating warm and Sam nuzzling his stubble. He felt sick inside. Sad and already mourning, mourning the time they’d wasted on stupid, small arguments over their long, young years at each other’s side and days they’d sat around motel rooms watching cartoons. But he was glad to be somewhere with Sam, somewhere _different_ with Sam, not shadowed by the neglect pervasive in their usual dives.

“…let’s go to Disney World.”

Sam’s eyelids fluttered a few times, blinking in confusion. To him the statement came out of nowhere, and he was trying to catch up.

“What?”

Dean’s hands tightened against the lacquered railing of the gorilla enclosure. His green eyes drifted open to watch one of those huge gorillas clambering up into a big, rope hammock.

“Can you imagine just…packin’ up, and drivin’ cross country somewhere…just for fun?” He snorted at the thought of it. Of Winchesters doing anything ‘for fun.’ Even right now, it was a date to stave off the thought of something inevitable.

Sam considered this. He couldn’t imagine _any_ of them doing anything ‘just for fun’…Well. Dean might. But he and their father certainly didn’t. They were always serious minded. 

“…no. I guess I can’t.” Sam leaned against the railing next to his brother, looking into the enclosure. “We’ve never been very good at that. Any of us.” Their world wasn’t really one of fun and play, but Sam couldn’t help but feel like living in ‘their world’ had deprived them of something. He could hear it in the way the people passing him by were laughing, carelessly.

Dean let go of the railing, straightening, and watched a little baby gorilla fucking with a big male gorilla’s day, that huge four hundred pound thing swatting it away one handed. He grinned, and he didn’t feel like he was making himself enjoy the gorillas. He liked the gorillas. They had funny faces. Maybe they threw poo! (They weren’t throwing poo right now, though.) He wanted to see monkeys throwing poo.

“I’m havin’ a good time,” he told his little brother, and his smile snuck a little bashful. He was such a freaking kid.

Sam couldn’t help but smile, leaning in to rest the side of his head against the top of Dean’s, nose brushing cheekbone. His eyes half shut.

“I’m glad.”

\----

They ate at a place in the zoo.

It was one of those tourist designed places, with a lot of little internal waterfalls and fake birds calling over the speakers, with food that was fourteen dollars but tasted like it was made with three. 

Once the sun started going down, they headed out, hitting one of their usual sort of bar to regain some kind of equilibrium, Sam getting his usual single beer to Dean’s couple. Sam reached over and put a hand over Dean’s.

“Hasn’t been so bad, all told, has it?” he asked, looking for some affirmation. It was hard to tell what he was talking about -- the date, their lives, their family, their relationship, or the revelations of the past few months.

Dean took a draw from the long necked bottle in his hand, brackish and bitter, cheap American brew. His gaze drifted to their joined hands, large hands, rough, worn and scarred.

“Been great, man.” He glanced to Sam’s blue eyes, a reassuring smile playing across his lips. “Even when it sucked.”

“And you and me?” Sam queried again, pushing, but his expression was one of almost hope, taking his brother’s words as law. Their fingers moved together, Sam’s caressing over Dean’s palm and wrist.

Dean’s smile faded, and he searched Sam’s face.

“Couldn’t tell you,” he refused, stone faced and certain.

Sam licked his lips and nodded, glancing down. He kept his hand there, with Dean’s, but there was a knot of tension in his chest. He couldn’t _blame_ Dean. He didn’t. It wasn’t even about Dean, not really. Some part of Sam wanted Dean to hate him, to give him the punishment he felt he deserved. 

He swallowed to force that knot down and nodded, raising his head again.

“…glad we did, anyways,” he said, with a smile that was trying but failing. He lifted Dean’s hand and lowered his head, resting his forehead against his brother’s knuckles, face obscured. “It’s pretty selfish but…I’m glad anyways.” 

Dean’s other hand rested against the cold and perspiring side of the beer bottle, his quarter-empty third. Country music drawled from the speakers and the air was thick and smoky, with a smell that would cling to Dean’s jacket for days. A knot balled up in the pit of Dean’s stomach, and something bleak passed behind his eyes, but his voice was steady and husky -- not a pardon, but a promise.

“Wouldn’t be me without you.”

Sam sniffed in on a breath and glanced up for a moment with that same smile, maybe a little rueful, this time, before lowering his head again and pressing the back of Dean’s hand to his cheek.

“You’re stronger than you think you are,” Sam murmured, but didn’t say anymore.

In a way, it was opposite. Always strong and independent, Sam. Always forthright and self-righteous, Sam. Always headstrong and always, always selfish Sammy. It was the persona that had defined his world.

But there were demons out there, people out there, who would trade their very conscious, their sense of right and wrong for the power to be something more -- to gain some kind of answer to the questionable existence they led. Not to _learn_ the answer, or give something to get it, but to steal it, from the people who’d sacrificed something to be there. To be _infinite_.

And Sam wasn’t one of them. Even though Dean said there was no Dean without Sam, Sam suspected that the truth was actually the opposite. 

After all, only one of them would go on forever, and the other only had an identity through the love that had been given him.

\----

[October 23, 2007] 

Figuring out where they wanted to do this thing ended up being the hardest part.

They'd never had a choice before. The demon came and stole someone precious out of their lives and then it was over. This time, they knew he was coming.

Sam'd get calls every other day for awhile, then pretty much every day, with updates. Sometimes he heard from Bobby, sometimes from their Dad, sometimes from Mildred, and he ticked the names of towns and cities across the world off his list. Sometimes the news wasn't good -- sometimes it was downright bad, but even so. 

They definitely weren't losing.

They ended up at a harbor on the cold coastline of Oregon, where there were plenty of old, unused buildings to take advantage of. One of the older docks had a few warehouses lining the harbor, empty and untouched for some years. Plenty of space, plenty of room and plenty far away from innocent bystanders. It had to be far away enough that people wouldn't come running at the sound of gunshots.

Dean surveyed the third warehouse they'd been in since they pulled up on the docks. It was mostly empty, some unfolded cardboard boxes propped against the walls, wooden shipping crates stacked in one corner of the building, a rusted crane still hanging on its track in the ceiling.

"I dunno, honey," Dean said skeptically, standing in the middle of the shipping floor, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. "Not much of a back yard. And you know the kids really wanted a back yard." He flashed Sam that roguish smile.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"What about security?" the younger man asked. "Do you think they patrol these docks at all? We'll have trouble if they coming running in while we're in the thick of it."

"Place like this?" Dean wrinkled his nose. "M'sure somebody still cruises by, every couple hours." He glanced towards the high windows where the sunlight trickled through the stale, chill air. He shrugged. "Won't be a problem. Dad'll take care of 'em."

"Dad isn't going to _be here_ ," Sam insisted.

Dean's face said _Please_.

"He'll be lurkin'. He's a lurker. He lurks."

Sam made a face. God, their family.

"Well," he finally consented with a sigh. "I guess we better get started. Maybe we can find one of those mattresses that people leave on the side of the road or something." Classy.

Dean grimaced at the thought of that. Him, Sam, a dirty roadside mattress...A smirk spread slowly over his features. He nodded to himself. His eyes snuck sidelong, and he slapped Sam on the butt.

"Dad's gonna be _real_ sorry if he lurks too close."

" _Gross_ , dude. Can we not?" Sam gave a little jump when Dean smacked him on the ass, but made a face at the inclusion of their _father_ into that little mental image.

"They haven't invented the pill to make _me_ not," Dean apologized, holding his hands out regretfully. He lowered them with a sadder smile, and he looked away, across the warehouse, sobering as he began to calculate what needed to be done.

It wasn't going to be easy.

\----

[November 1, 2007]

Sam lay on their 'bed', staring up at the ceiling of the warehouse, approximately thirty feet above his head. It was a long way up there. He wondered how long it would take the demon to drag Dean up the wall. If it would have the same horrifying effect far away as it did close up.

Dean's face rested in the crook of Sam's neck, his breath moist against Sam's skin. He struggled with himself to feel anything but fear, to kindle any emotion inside himself but dread.

When they'd faced the demon in the past, it had been on short notice, an unwelcome surprise. It hadn't been two long months, counting the days like a prisoner notching scratches on his cell wall. Dean tried to imagine the reckoning lying in wait for him like he had every day before, and it remained indistinct; it remained impossible. The demon was an enemy feared, loathed and hunted by their family for a quarter of a century, an elusive presence but a powerful force on their lives. In Chicago, he'd contemplated what it would mean if it all ended in one final night. In Salvation, he'd hoped for it. Now that it was a certain thing, he didn't want it anymore. He wanted the open road ahead of him, and a million possible futures.

Time seemed to have closed itself, bit by bit, until there was only one direction they could head. Down to that single destination the memories had talked about that Sam couldn't quite grasp. 

The warehouse was dark and dusty, and Sam kept expecting a figure to mold itself out of the shadows at any moment, but he knew they had one more night. One more.

It was fuck-all cold, this far north, this time of the year, but they'd been prepared for that. They had layers of sheets and blankets and comforters over them, keeping a tiny warm pocket for their bodies to curl just so. The mattress kept out the harsh cold of the hard cement they lay over.

Sam turned to face his brother, shuffling his body a little.

"...nervous?" he asked.

"Pffft," Dean dismissed, nose close to Sam's, making a face. "I'm not nervous."

"Terrified?" Sam smirked a little.

"Thaaat's about like it." Dean winced.

Sam rolled them over in one move, putting out a hand to brace himself over his brother, looking down at him. Dean felt warm and solid beneath him, so alive, so vital and strong -- he couldn't die. The idea was preposterous. Not this man. This young man still so bright and powerful.

"...you're not going to die," Sam said with utter conviction. 

"Got a demon that'll go ten to one comin' in about tomorrow," Dean joked, grinning at Sam's stubborn faith, even if he wasn't so wholly convinced. "Better stop by an ATM." 

Dean felt fragile and ineffective in his own human skin. No power inside him but his own beating heart. He'd accepted a reality that offered no guarantees.

"Shut up," Sam insisted tightly, hating those statements. Hating the future they insisted upon. Sam grit his teeth, then slowly let the tension bleed out of him, until he was laying down on Dean's chest, hand curled next to his face against Dean's collarbone.

Dean put his arms around him, stroking Sam's muscular back, and knowing all the strength in their bodies didn't promise to save them come nightfall tomorrow. He wanted to be an escapist. He wanted to escape. But nothing he wished he could do would keep the two of them safe.

Dean shut up, just holding his brother close. Nothing he could say was anything Sam wanted to hear.

Sam shut his eyes, feeling Dean's fingers trace over his skin, and he didn't move much at all, save to brush his thumb over the flat of Dean's pectoral. The unheated air of the warehouse brushed harsh over their faces and exposed shoulders, and their legs twined a little for warmth.

"...You wanted to be a fireman?" Sam asked, breaking the silence a long time later, when his body had begun to debate sleep, something he didn't want to give into yet.

Dean didn't know how Sam remembered things like that. Little things. Like he was paying attention, or something.

"Every little kid wants to be a fireman," Dean pointed out. "You got the big truck. You got the ladders, and the hoses. You got the little spotted dog... _and_ shit blows up."

Dean remembered firemen. The hiss of the hoses and their sooty yellow coats, their hard hats gleaming in the flashing lights, and the oxygen tanks hanging from their backs. They were an indelible memory from his childhood, a long night sitting on the Impala's black hood, smoke billowing from his childhood home, hot breezes and cool droplets of water carried by the air.

"So you wanted to--...before Mom?" Sam asked, turning his head back at an uncomfortable angle to look up at his big brother curiously. He wanted to know these things. These strange facts and experiences that happened _before_ him, before he had Dean and knew everything about Dean.

"Mom used to take me to the fire station. I think it was near the library, or somethin'. When the garage doors were open, they'd let kids come in and see the rigs. I remember...I don't remember much. I was real small." Sam's curiosity warmed him and he scratched Sam's head affectionately, amused and flattered by how blown away Sam looked from such simple trivia.

Sam settled his head back down, with Dean's petting him, and shut his eyes.

"...what else do you remember?" he asked quietly, asking for anything, anything else.

"I didn't go to preschool but...there was a playground mom used to take me to. I wanna tell you I used to kick all the other kids asses, but there was this girl...mean little bitch, had these little butterfly hairclips, and, man, she'd beat the crap out of me. She'd take my shit, hit me with a stick, try and strangle me, knocked me off the fucking swing...So this one time, _one_ time, I bust her nose open, and she starts _screaming_. She's bleedin' all over the place. Mom's apologizin' to her mom. Dad takes my ass off for hittin' a girl..." Dean smiled to himself, reminiscing. "Dude, I was so in love with that chick."

Sam let out a little huff of breath from his nose, a little snort of laughter. His fingers tightened against Dean's side, over the ridges of his muscles. He could see the scenes playing out on the backs of his eyelids.

"I remember what it smelled like at Christmas,” Dean continued. “Dad'd get a real pine tree but the ornaments and the lights smelled kinda...musty, 'cause they'd be under the house all year long. Mom made cinnamon rolls on Christmas mornin', and...I remember 'em kissin'. Not under the mistletoe or anything like that. He just used to kiss her, real out of the blue." Dean remembered Lawrence. His childhood. What it had been like to have a home. Even if the memories were all emotional impressions and colorful snatches of visuals. He smiled, nostalgic, unfocused eyes focusing on Sam. "They stopped payin' attention to _me_ , so I wasn't a big fan."

"Keep talking..." Sam murmured after a moment of silence, his own voice low, barely audible, as if speaking too loud would make Dean want to stop.

As he spoke, bringing up old memories that Sam didn't have, his voice lulled Sam -- not to sleep, but into some quieted state that kept the fear at bay. All the waiting, wondering, the anxiety. The images in his head of his brother on a ceiling, like those others before him, always burning always dying over him, over his cursed bed, finally fading into the background noise that was the anxiety of their lives, Dean's stories of his short-lived childhood taking their place.

Dean spoke of other memories of their mother, the woman Sam had never known but who had died for him, and because of him, and loved Sam in spite of it. He remembered helping with yard work. He remembered not helping at all when she tried to give him a bath. She'd made him a birthday cake shaped like Godzilla. She used to play with his army men with him on the bedroom floor. And then there was their father, who laughed and smiled back then and brought home presents. Sometimes John tried to help in the kitchen, but he was a bad cook (like Sam). He tried to fix things around the house, but the only things he could fix right were cars and guns. It was Mary who had Dean's intuitive touch. 

The memories sparked associations in Dean's head, and he remembered more than he would have guessed, and he talked because Sam needed it. When his words finally trailed off, when he'd talked until he felt naked, he missed his mother all over again, her almost forgotten voice, and his father's long-abandoned smile. He guessed that would never change. (And knew it might not have long to.)

"...when I first got to Stanford, I hated it," Sam said, his voice quiet, speaking up long after Dean's had faded out. Four years Dean'd given him, four years that Dean'd had without Sam. It was only fair that Sam give back more of the four years he'd had without Dean. An even trade. "It wasn't how I expected it, I mean...It was orientation day and everyone was running around. It was chaos. But they were enjoying it. Everyone was there with their families, and seemed to know what to do, but I--...I missed you. I'd always had you to run off with, to some corner where we could steal food and make fun of people or pick pockets or something. I went to go get my papers and fill them out. Stanford has more than one library -- can you believe that? More than one. There was a whole library devoted to the law school -- Robert Crown Law Library. I spent a lot of time there...

“I don't know why I picked pre-law. I was always used to having to make decisions on the spot. You know, we never really have the time to debate pros and cons so...When they asked me what I wanted to major in, I picked pre-law. I thought they'd think I was a slacker or something if I chose 'undecided'. I didn't realize that a lot of kids do that for their first year. I didn't regret it, or anything...turns out I really liked the law," he tilted his head up a bit to give Dean a smile. "Kinda...fighting evil, just in a different way."

On their first date, Dean had heard stories about Stanford. About Jessica and Luis and the other friends Sam made, there. About meeting girls in art history classes and how that didn't work out for him in the long run. Not about the things that took them so close to that argument and that severance. Things that hit closer to home.

Dean raised a brow at Sam.

"And here I'd heard lawyers _were_ evil." (Everybody said so.)

"Not the kind I wanted to be...” Sam responded. “Those're the corporate lawyers. Or private lawyers. The ones that're paid well. I wanted to be a public lawyer -- one paid by the government, instead of private individuals. I kinda wanted to be an A.D.A.. I'd represent the people in cases against criminals." He'd looked into being a public defendant, but he was too good at reading people. He'd know when they were lying about being not guilty, and he couldn't represent someone like that. Besides, he was a hunter, not a defender. It didn’t come as naturally to him.

"I have no idea what you just said," Dean informed Sam informatively. "It's okay, though, because you're naked." He nodded firmly to himself.

Sam smiled and shifted up, scooting to throw a leg over Dean's waist and sitting up to straddle his brother, the blankets sliding off them and letting the cold air in. Sam shivered at the sudden temperature drop, but he placed a hand on either side of Dean's head leaning in to kiss him lightly.

"Saved up for months to get this bike..." He kissed Dean again. "Getting across campus wasn't fun, and the nearest food mart was like a mile away, which sucked to walk." He licked his lips, leaning down to nuzzle his brother's neck. "Finally got it and...it was the first time I'd ever just _worked_ to get something. I didn't steal it, or steal anything to get it, or use fraud or someone else's money. I worked and earned money and I bought it for myself." He lifted his head and gave Dean a half grin. "Like six months later I chained it to this little tree near my class -- got run over by one of those lawnmowers that the gardeners rode. It bent the front end all out of shape."

It was too cold to lie there uncovered in the chill of the night, but Dean didn't have any control over that, with Sam on top of him and laying on the affection. He quivered, skin cooling underneath him, wetting his own lips anticipantly, and he met that grin with amusement, teasing him from a somewhat vulnerable position.

"Sucks to be you."

"Not so much..." Sam lifted a hand, thumb tracing Dean's cheekbone. His gaze flicked from one of Dean's eyes to the other as he looked down at him. "I got to be with some pretty incredible people along the way."

"Those 'friends' of yours, right?" Dean asked skeptically, peering up at his little brother. "I've heard about people who have those."

"I’m not talking about Stanford -- I was talking about in the scheme of things." Sam leaned down for another slow kiss, the air biting against their skin. "I mean...in my life. Mom, Jess, you...You."

Dean ran his hands over Sam's chest, all prickly with goosebumps and his nipples hard. The only warm part of his own body was the heat pooling between his thighs. He flashed a boyish grin, too delighted for his age.

"I made the list twice." 

Sam smiled down at him, warmed by Dean's expression, their noses touching.

"Want me to write it down for you?" He brushed his knuckles over the spiky hair on the side of Dean's head.

"Mom, Jess, me...and who?" Dean screwed up his face like it was already forgotten.

Sam kissed him deeply, suddenly, tongue pressing in and searching until it curled under Dean's, drew it out into his own mouth, their lips sliding together. He pulled back for only a second.

"You."

And then their bodies were wrapped together, arms, legs, tongues and mouths, eyes shut and breath heavy and fast in the harshly cold air.

Dean had the better end of the deal, and he knew it, shielded by Sam's huge body, skin rubbing against Sam's warm skin as he moved underneath it. It was friction that kept them warm. Dean grasped the back of Sam's head and grasped the broad of his back, their bodies twisted together, and it was a slow and sensual writhing, entwined and shivering on that thin mattress.

Dean's hands left trails of cooling warmth against Sam's back, and he arched into the touch, as much for the sake of it as for the heat. Their bodies surged together, slow, like waves, up and down as they kissed, Sam's head turned to the side and lips parted to allow the play of their tongues.

Sam felt himself grow hard against Dean's thighs, pressing between them, and he kept up the rocking motion.

"You want this?" Dean teased, voice purring sin and promise, deepened in his passion. He smirked all naughty until Sam kissed the smirk from his lips and their lips were meshing wet and slick. Sam's erection brushed and bumped against his own. Sometimes, he opened his legs for Sam. Sometimes. But he didn't just hand it out.

"Don't be a bitch," Sam grumbled back, lifting his head, finally, from Dean's lips. "Remember the first time we did this? Not the blow jobs and all that. This."

Dean let his hand wander down the curve of Sam's spine. He remembered. Everything in his life falling apart and the world stopping on Sam's words.

"...your timing was somethin’."

"I want it to be like that," Sam asked, simply. "How you said it...'takes the edge off'..." Sam still remembered the way Dean had sounded in that motel room in Maine, how he'd sounded when he'd said that he was happy.

"Tall order," Dean admitted, kissed breathless. Back then, Sam had been inside his head. Closer than physically possible. Closer than Sam buried inside his body rutting to an orgasm. They'd gotten a lot _better_ at sex since then (heck, now Dean could deep throat anytime), but the thrill of fitting their bodies together that first time had erased the awkwardness.

You didn't pull that kind of sex out of a hat. (Dean didn't even have a hat. Or, right now, a blanket.)

Sam shifted his weight, tensed his muscles and rolled them over, until Dean was over him, his hands resting on his brother's arms.

"...c'mon. Too tall for Dean Winchester?" Sam challenged quietly.

Dean flinched, because of the implication and because of the chill air hitting his warm back. His voice dropped to a husky growl, and he lowered his head to bite and lick at Sam's neck.

"Empire State Buildin' ain't that."

Sam hissed and arched his head back, baring his neck to Dean's attentions.

Dean dragged his blunt fingernails down Sam's broad torso as he slipped lower, and he was shivering cold, and so was Sam, but the momentum kept him kissing, his body shocked alive. He suckled and nipped at Sam's hard nipple, and lapped at the puckered areola, leaving it wet to the merciless temperature as he kissed Sam's trembling stomach, fingers digging against Sam's ribs.

Sam groaned at the stimulation, and also at the unwelcome sensation of Dean's body moving down him, leaving him more and more exposed. He swallowed and shut his eyes.

Dean dipped his tongue into Sam's belly button, chuckling darkly at his brother's situation. Sam deliciously spread out and trusting, his shaking body illuminated dimly by what few rays of the lights on the dock slanted through the warehouse's small windows. Dean pressed his palms against the mattress and pushed himself to a crouch, pulling their spilled sheets and blankets over Sam's freezing body, smirking down at Sam like _he_ wasn't as bothered by the cold as his brother. (Dean's body betrayed it as a lie.)

He crawled naked over the blankets to the foot of their bed. That was where he crept under them, a lump sliding up beneath their weight. The heavy, nauseous feeling of dread still clung to him, but the heat in his stomach was beginning to ease it back, and his mind was caught up in wicked things.

Sam tugged the blankets gratefully to his chin, but couldn't help but smirk as he watched the shape of his brother worming his way up towards him beneath them. Sam parted his legs a little more, giving Dean a bit more room.

Dean didn't need a light to find his way around Sam's body. His lips and fingers had mapped its contours long, slow nights before. His lips found Sam's erection, hard and waiting, and he pressed his lips fondly against that soft, taut skin, his favorite playmate, but he didn't ply his attentions there. He nipped and nibbled at the inside of Sam's thigh while his hand stroked its outside, nuzzling his way down towards the juncture of Sam's legs.

Sam's body jerked into the touch, fingers curling against the fitted sheet they'd put over the mattress. He felt Dean's touch between his legs, against his erection, but there was a whole element of surprise there, unable to see his brother or know where he'd touch next.

Dean rolled Sam's hips back, so that he had the whole of that sexual part of him open for exploration. He loved everything between Sam's legs. After what had crawled past six months of intimacy, blowjobs were still a service he was happy to perform. He tucked himself lower, now, although his feet hung chilly out from beneath the covers, and his lips and his tongue found that sensitive flesh where his body so often buried itself inside Sam.

Sam hissed, cocking his head to the side slightly as Dean's tongue slid to sinful places (places that Sam was pretty convinced a tongue wasn't supposed to go, but _there it was_ ).

Dean couldn't lie to himself. Ass tasted like ass, and ass tasted sour and it tasted bitter. But he liked that sound he heard muted through the thick covers, and here, too, was where Sam smelled like Sam and smelled like sex, deep and musky, and that powerful scent was stronger than the taste in his mouth.

Where Sam's vulnerable skin was accustomed to Dean's lubed cock and Dean's lubed fingers, Dean's tongue traced circles around that hidden and private place. Dean's stubble prickled ticklish.

The sensation made Sam's body tense up, both Dean's tongue and his stubble, and his fingers curled into fists. His hips pushed up, off the mattress.

Dean hovered an inch away until Sam's hips sunk back down against the sheet. He'd finally found out first hand what an electric web of nerves that pinch of skin held and he’d been eager to exploit it, since. His tongue lathed baitingly over that flesh and then he tried something he hadn't done in the course of any blowjobs, pitting that muscle against Sam's, pushing his tongue inside his body, hand gripping Sam's thigh.

"Jesus-- fuck!" Sam yelled inarticulately, Dean's tongue penetrating him, and it felt different than a cock, different than fingers. Softer. Twitching and shifting against those sensitive nerves.

Pleasure surged through Dean's stomach, through his chest, and even his numb feet felt it, Sam's exclamation the only reward he needed for his cleverness. He probed that skin a carnal minute before he withdrew his tongue, sucking a taste from his tongue that was rapidly becoming very appealing.

Sam panted, his hips coming back down to the mattress as Dean withdrew, and he lifted his head to look down at that lump under the covers.

Fingers brushed Sam's stiff hard on.

"Not a turn-off of yours," the lump observed lowly.

Sam had to laugh, Dean's voice muffled by the sheets.

"Said the monster from under the bed. You know how ridiculous you look right now?"

"I might bite," Dean warned slyly, nuzzling Sam's unprotected balls, left exposed and alone by the dick giving Dean a standing ovation.

Sam gave up and shifted to sit, lifting the covers and throwing them over his own head, scooting into the center of the mattress with Dean, the both of them hidden away now.

"...was cold," Sam said -- a lame excuse.

Dean drew his feet under the covers, laughing freely, the spectre of the coming night brushed to the edges of his mind. It was suddenly something eight and four years old and a flashlight, a disquieting transition in a very sexual situation.

"I hope you never did _this_ with any monsters under your bed."

"Only the ones that brought me flowers.” It was impossible to see his half smile in the darkness of the blankets. Sam felt out Dean's body like a blind man, working up his brother's legs to their junction, and his fingers traced over the flushed erection he found there.

Dean blew a steady stream of air between his lips, letting out steam as Sam's fingers grazed skin just begging to be touched.

"I knew I used to smell roses." 

Sam snorted but it was a laugh, his legs overlaying Dean's.

"You planning on putting this to use?" he asked, fingers skirting the hard flesh he'd become so oddly familiar with over the last six months.

"Lube's two feet away in the bag, man. Who _dares_ brave that shit?" Dean groaned, at the idea and the sensations sparking in his loins. He hadn't _begun_ to feel his feet again, basking in the pleasant warmth of their body heat beneath the covers.

"I think I can-..." Sam paused, licking his lips. He'd tested it out, of course, the control he'd received from his bargain with the memories, but it still all seemed so strange and foreign to him. He moved his hand to the side, and he just sort of...called the bottle to his palm, feeling it crawl over his fingers, and he wrapped them over it. "Here."

"…....dude."

"It's--...I wanted to be able to--...Cause of tomorrow." Sam wasn't about to let Dean die. He'd take any weapon he could get his hands (or brain) on.

Dean's hand reached out in the darkness, thumb brushing over Sam's cheek, the prickles of his five o'clock shadow, and he traced his knuckles down that skin.

"Do you remember...?"

"No...I wouldn't risk that." Sam shook his head a little, and leaned into the touch eagerly. "It's just...some control. Enough to be able to fight."

Relief trickled through the arousal churning with a momentary confusion within Dean. There was no question of _why_ , but he wanted to ask _how_. 

He didn't need to.

One sure thing had anchored inside him. That one absolute he'd been yearning his whole life for. 

He trusted Sam. No questions asked.

He accepted the Vaseline from Sam's hand, and he popped the top off it.

"I'll sleep better tonight," he complimented. Made a face in the dark. " _May_ be because I bone you senseless." He pushed his fingers through the oily jelly, grinning.

Sam let out a breath of relief, though Dean couldn't possibly see the wide smile that stretch Sam's face at that acceptance. That lack of anything fearful.

They'd finally reached it. That point where there wasn't anything black and ugly between them anymore. Not college, not dad, not hunting, not demons nor the scarring taboo of incest. 

Not Dean growing up and the bitterness Sam carried for so long after that.

Not Jess.

Not Mom.

Just them, under the covers, partners in every way and Sam linked his arms around Dean, feeling the ease of comfort. 

Dean rested his head against Sam's shoulder while his fingers worked his cock, smearing the lube from base to head, licking his lips anticipating that tight entry and the enveloping heat inside his brother, the only home he had.

"...feel like we should be tellin' ghost stories under here."

"Oh, the stories we could tell." Sam ducked his head to feel out Dean's lips with his own. "When this is all over...we'll have a pretty good story to tell."

"...those kids you put in our volunteer mommy," Dean amended, proudly.

" _Dean_ ," Sam said.

Dean assuaged him with his mouth and his slick hands, kissing and kneading. (He wasn't giving up his fantasy.)

"...gonna let me in?" he muttered, suddenly impatient, nipping Sam's jaw.

"What's the password?" Sam teased, even as he eased backwards, pulling Dean with him, his arms still around his brother's neck.

" _Now_ ," Dean grunted, aligning his body over Sam in the quiet susurrus of the shifting blankets. The air was moist with their breath, and stifling, but so much preferable to the cold there was no alternative.

Sam laughed, and he lifted his legs without hesitation, resting them on either side of Dean's waist, body rolling back.

Dean grinned, laughing softly, as his hips bobbed down to slide his eager erection into Sam's welcoming body. He groaned approval, making himself comfortable, little flinches here and there, before he drew back and pushed his first slow thrust, fulfillment spilling into his hips.

In this warm cocoon, everything love and very mutual admiration, there were no terrifying tomorrows.

Their bodies rocked together, breath hot in the confined space, and limbs twisted around each other. Sam arched the first time Dean pressed against his prostate, and he moaned without fear of being overheard.

Sweat rose damp to their skin, and their bodies collided slick and smooth, Dean surging and Sam receiving. Trust, and love, and respect they could share without touching, without speaking. They had never needed sex to share those things. There were times, empty country roads in Canada and Dean disappearing in the dark, when sex would only cheapen the bond between them, when sexuality wasn't enough to express that connection.

Most of the time, they had sex for relaxation.

The other times, the important times, it was another act entirely. The depths of dedication. Total consummation. One being and one purpose and everything shared between them, no telepathy needed, the slick slapping sounds of flesh, the grunts and the groans and the cries, the sweat and the smell only window dressing for that private world within the sex they shared.

It didn't end when they came. The rocking slowed, their bodies shifted down and their motions halted, everything wet and hot between them, but it didn't end. Sam swallowed and his eyes were shut, even in the darkness of their hollow space. His breath was still fast, his heartbeat still thrumming along in his ears, and he kept one hand pressed to his brother's back, at the top nodule of his spine.

There was something perfect, something about the combination of _them_ , that had somehow altered everything. Blurred the lines. There wasn't enough time in the world to capture it all.

Sam shifted his hand and pressed it to the Khamsa on Dean's stomach, his semen smeared over his brother's stomach under his palm, and Sam laughed quietly, a sound of peace and contentment.

Dean slipped his abating hard on out of brother’s thighs and lowered himself down on top of him. Unwilling to move. Every inch of his body satisfied.

"...give me fifteen minutes. We'll do this again," he promised, a grin in his voice. (He just wasn't young anymore.)

Sam only laughed.

"...dude, it smells like spunk in here. Wave the blankets or something." They pushed and shoved each other like brothers, poking each other in the sides. They opened the blankets to let some fresh air in and complained about the cold and at some point started kissing messily.

It was the stupidest, most perfect way to be together.

\----

[November 2, 2007] 

Sam and Dean sat on the end of one of the abandoned docks, looking out at the horizon off the Oregon coastline.

Their calves dangled over the edge of the wood, and it was bitterly cold, the wind coming off the water harsh and pulling at their clothes. On the dock, their hands were together, fingers frigid and laying over one another.

The sun was beginning to set.

\----

Sam pulled gloves on to his hands, rubbing them together as they walked in aimless patterns on the warehouse floor, never more than a few feet between them. The old, cobwebbed facility gloomed relatively dark, save for the three electric lanterns they’d put up to see by.

They could have switched the power breakers, but they didn’t want anyone coming to investigate any mysteriously lit abandoned warehouses.

The anticipation was killing Dean. He was all nerves, startling at shadows and trying not to show it. He knew somewhere inside him that for all alertness, all pacing and preparation, the demon would appear out of nowhere, and not when he startled but when he didn't expect it.

"Jumpy much?" Sam asked with weak teasing. It wasn't like he wasn't in the exact same position, the exact same state. He totally was. It was easier to just joke about it.

"Like a kitten." Dean tossed Sam a strained but playful smile. Waiting for a situation in which he would be utterly helpless without whatever mysterious and unholy power waited inside his brother couldn't go easy on his nerves, no matter how much faith he had in Sam. Sam had power, but the demon...Dean knew he had more.

"Just try and think about all the kinky things we can try out in bed, now that I have some control over these things," Sam strung up an easy looking smile, wanting to distract his brother from the anxiety that was plaguing them both.

Dean's face reflected all the gears turning in his head. His eyes narrowed, and for a minute he paused in his restless walking. A lascivious smile spread across his lips.

"Well, fuck me. _That's_ hot."

Sam felt his grin become more genuine at that, and he opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a foreign voice.

“Of course,” the voice interrupted, “you’d have to make things difficult for me.”

Both men stopped their movements, turning tensely to face that speaker. The demon stepped calmly into the light, wearing some unrecognizable skin -- some poor idiot who’d gotten dragged into this messy business.

“No jobs. No girlfriends. No hobbies.” Dean shrugged. “We’ve got a lot of time on our hands.”

Dean’s hands were stuffed in the warm pockets of his winter jacket, and his breath fogged in the air. He’d been afraid -- fear that took his breath away with its intensity as they worked through the morning’s long, final preparations. The demon stood before him, now…and he was still afraid. Fear had always been a part of the job he did, and he turned it into a bastardly grin. He looked his death in the face, and turned the terror in his veins into one more weapon to fight with. This fear now was all his will to stay alive.

“Yes,” the demon nodded with a smile that wasn’t pleased. “I’ve noticed.” He looked from Dean to Sam. “So, Sammy boy, how’s that little list coming? Gotten all your brothers and sisters?”

“They aren’t my brothers or my sisters.”

“Not by blood,” the demon cooed. “But in arms. You, sonny, have officially defected. And believe me when I say the way _we_ deal with traitors makes your country just look darned adorable.”

Sam set his expression and didn’t rise to it.

“Very good. Silent and stoic. Very serious. Makes me believe you actually think you’ve got it in you. You’ve taken my army from me, Sammy.” He folded his arms across his chest and his yellow eyes traced the length of Sam’s body, appraisingly, unaffected by Dean’s protective glower. “You’re not like the others. You went native. This life suits you better.” He nodded to himself, agreeing with some internal resolution, the smile that spread over his lips became agreeable. “Maybe the secret we’re looking for is lodged itself inside of _you_. I have such _hopes_ for you, Sammy.” He wagged a finger towards the tall, young man. “It’s time to come home."

“Fuck you,” Sam spat virulently. 

“I’ll force you back to yourself if I have to. Or just rob you of your will. I’m not giving you the satisfaction of oblivion,” the demon warned. “I forgave you once. Don’t expect mercy, this time.”

“You killed an innocent woman for me!” Sam accused, even as he was aware that it wouldn’t bother the demon at all. He was too mad for that logic. “You think that’s merciful?”

“Better than sinking into a vegetative state and living the rest of your life on a ventilator. I’m pretty certain Dean would agree with me, wouldn’t you?” The demon looked to the elder Winchester, like remembering him for the first time. “One faceless woman for our little Sammy? Pretty good trade, in my book.”

Dean cringed at the truth of the words. He didn't know if he could've killed his own father for Sam, but maybe he could have tried. Even knowing the pain of a man who didn't remain faceless dying to save his life, if it'd been his choice, his call...Dean might as well have done it himself, because a woman died and his only thought had been _I have my brother back_.

"That your only trick? Knowin' where it already hurts?” He matched the demon’s cruel smile, eyes hard in the dim electric light. “I'm not bleedin' yet."

"Give it time, boy," the demon responded calmly. "You are always irritatingly eager to die."

"I was," Dean told him, and he was unashamed. That willingness to stare death in the eyes had never before been the will to live on. Deadly promises glinted above the dangerous curve of Dean's lips. "Not today."

The demon stopped in his motions, looking at Dean and taking him in.

"...so you are," the creature said, with a small, amused smile growing on his stolen lips, a look of honest surprise there. "So you are. How shocking."

"Dean," Sam murmured, taking one step back, feeling something turning over, like a wave cresting.

Dean took one step closer to Sam. The horror of his own vulnerability churned bile in his stomach. He expected the worst, and here and now he had no defense.

It crashed and both Sam and Dean were shoved back by an invisible force, just like before, feet skidding over concrete until their backs met wall, and only then did Sam even have the chance to think of fighting back.

Dean's eyes rolled wide and panicked towards his little brother, pinned there like him by that unstoppable force. Unless the power in Sam could at least stave off the creature before them, Dean knew cold inside him that they had no chance at all.

"Where's your daddy?” The demon asked with calm venom. “I was hoping to see him. _He's_ the hunter of the family. You boys don't have a chance without him. But you know that."

Sam pushed against the barrier, pushed his shoulders off the wall, and it was hard work. He was pretty certain it was only working because the demon didn't _expect_ him to have any control. He wasn't sure if this was something sustainable.

His eyes flicked to one of the old crates they'd stacked near the mattress for some insulation, and one of them flew at the demon, fast and barreling. The demon made no sound, just smacked the thing away as it shattered around him, but the surprised was enough to release both boys, and they went to work.

There wasn’t time to be relieved, or even take a breath. They both knew that -- had talked about it, before. There wasn’t even time to be concerned about each other. They had to move.

Sam ran straight forward, from a crouch on the ground to a straight out sprint towards the demon, who looked more impressed than thrown off. He flicked a knife from his sleeve and tried to score a mark on the demon’s skin, but it ducked a shoulder and used its other arm to shove Sam to the ground. Sam stayed there, crouched low.

The sound of a gun firing echoed loud in the hollow space of the warehouse, and Dean stood to the side, pulling the trigger of his glock over and over again as bullets flew towards the figure of the possessed man.

They didn’t have time to think about saving this stranger’s life.

The demon was fast, like he’d been that night in Salvation, flickering like a cloud of dust. Some of the bullets hit home, but other than forcing the demon back, they didn’t do any damage.

Sam crawled over the ground to a stack of boxes left in a corner. He pulled out another hand gun from a box, holding it out from his half sitting position on the ground and cocked it, picking up firing as soon as the bullets in Dean’s gun ran out. The demon had taken a step towards Dean once he’d heard the barrel click empty, but he was forced away by the unexpected blows from the side.

Dean ducked out of sight, behind the crates and moved to a pillar where they’d taped a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, and he yanked at the thick tape, pulling it away from the metal and comfortably into his hand. He pulled the machete out from his hip. He rounded the corner when he heard Sam’s gun click out, throwing the machete with his right hand, watching it bury in the demon’s shoulder.

The demon gave a bark of frustration, yanking the knife out as he whirled to face Dean.

“This isn’t _cute_ anymore, boys,” he hissed, and the gun flew out of Dean’s hands as he raised it to fire.

“Oh fu--…” Dean was cut off as his body was thrashed against the metal pillar hard enough to make him arch. It knocked all the air out his lungs, sound impossible.

Sam groped around on the floor, finding one of the large knives they’d taped to the back of a crate, yanking it off. He ran at the demon full tilt again, launching himself off the ground in a desperate attempt to make it through. His knees impacted the demon’s chest and shoulders and he drove the knife down at the same time, sending both of them falling back, rolling helplessly across the floor. Sam felt his body pitch forward, and he tipped into the motion, rolling himself over the floor and off the demon, skidding to a halt in a crouched position. He still gripped the hilt of his knife in his hand, the blade stained red.

The demon turned over, blood running down his front and flesh healing up in front of Sam’s eyes.

“Come, now,” the demon grit out, angry and spitting, but some feral part of him clearly enjoying this, and despite it all, he was still winning. “You really think any of this is going to effect me? Where’s your big guns? Or Big Gun, should I say.”

Sam’s eyes widened a little, and Dean lifted his head from between the arms supporting himself. Their gazes flicked to one another, then to the demon. Sam couldn’t help but smile a bit.

“…you don’t know,” he said hoarsely, with awed realization. “You can’t--…You don’t know what’s going to happen.” It was the possibility they’d hoped for but hadn’t dared to depend on.

The demon couldn’t see the future.

“...We’re going to win,” Sam whispered with greedy anticipation.

Dean launched from the ground and tackled the figured, punching with all the ferocity in his strong body, and the demon narrowed his eyes as he was punched bloody. Dean stopped and let out a strangled cry when something foreign and unseen clawed across his chest, a memory of that night in the cabin a year ago, yellow eyes in his father’s face.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean ground out and lifted his arm for another hit, despite the blood leaking out of him, but he went flying back. It took longer for him to hit a wall this time, from the center of the warehouse, and he hit it harder. There were devil’s traps and other symbols etched around them, but even though the demon flinched from time to time, he walked through them, uncaring. He walked towards Dean, predatory this time.

Dean stared at him wide and wild eyed, breathing hard, and felt that pressure begin to drag him up, nails in the aluminum wall digging against his back. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even struggle -- the force against him absolute. He imagined his mother, and he imagined Jess, imagined them dragged and pinned to the ceiling. He had much further to go. A much longer time to think about it. And the nails were tearing his shirt and his skin.

Horror roared through him, ears deaf with it, and the demons yellow eyes the only thing he saw. 

“Hey!” Sam yelled, distracting the demon, who turned to look down the barrel of the Colt that Sam was holding. The demon met Sam’s eyes for a second, and then Sam fired at point blank range without a word.

Except there was nothing but smoke where the bullet traveled, and the demon was a few inches to the right. The last bullet made a loud ‘pock!’ sound as it penetrated the sheet metal of the warehouse, letting in a beam of light from the dock lights. 

Dean fell the few feet to the floor, no longer held up by that uncanny power, and the demon laughed.

“Well, looks like you’re out of--” the demon cut himself off mid-sentence with an undignified cough as Sam threw the Colt at his head, the gun impacting against the bridge of the possessed man’s nose.

Sam yanked the glove off his right hand and drove it, palm up, against the demon’s stomach.

The sigil traced into his skin laced with blazing light as it touched the demonic presence and Sam and the demon shrieked in pain.

It ended in fire, just like it began.

The symbol burned into Sam’s flesh, burning away the skin only where the ink had been charted, leaving bloody lesions over his palm, wrist, and up his forearm. The intricate, arcane weapon had been drawn all the way up to Sam’s elbow. The fire in his arm spread into the possessed body, but, more importantly, into the demon. He began to burn, ember by ember, the little black flecks that made up his being flaring bright red and disappearing, that corporeal body vanishing similarly.

Sam didn’t turn his eyes away. He kept his hand pressed up against the other man’s upper stomach as he burned away around him.

The demon writhed, but couldn’t tear itself away from the sigil and skin that had been bound to him, made more powerful than any devil’s trap by the sacrifice of Sam’s blood, which ran soulless and both human and inhuman at once. The demon grasped Sam’s bicep, but soon his face was gone, and there was no expression he could have made to persuade Sam to stop. Nothing he could have said or done.

The demon and body burned away to nothing, without even any flames, like a molten heat, until there was nothing but steaming air and Sam’s bleeding hand, and the warehouse was stiflingly hot.

Sam breathed hard, staring at the space where the being that had plagued them all their lives had stood, where he no longer stood, where he would never stand again.

There was nothing left.

Not here, not in Hell, not in any world. It was _dead_. Finite and finished, with no remnant save the torture it had exacted on the families of its victims, who finally stood victorious.

Dean stumbled to his feet, eyes locked on the place where the demon had disappeared. In those first seconds, it was unbelievable, as with any great undertaking. The demon had defined his entire life, but it had burned away as surely as his mother. He expected it to reappear before them. It didn’t, because it couldn’t.

Sam took a step back, lowering his arm. Blood dripped from his fingers and onto the flat and dusty floor. His arm hurt, but it wasn’t serious enough to pay it much attention. He turned his head up, looking up at the rafters of the warehouse, some light coming in through the windows near the roof.

Sam shut his eyes.

\----

Sam saw the sun turn over in the sky, showing its back to the world, burning bright around the edges.

“I didn’t know the sun had a dark side,” he said.

“That’s because it only comes out at night,” the memories responded, standing behind him. Sam turned, looking over his shoulder at them with a small smile.

“It’s over.”

“Not quite.”

“What do you mean?” Sam’s smile faded a little. The memories just shook their head a little, with a soft, sad smile, as if they were talking to a child who couldn’t quite understand yet. Sam licked his lips. “I guess you want this back now.” He held out the control he’d gained, the knowledge he’d needed to save his brother, a vortex in his hand.

“Not really,” the memories responded. “Whatever you want, I want…”

“So you’re saying I could just…keep this. Be able to control my powers. Live a long and happy life with my brother and you’d never--…I’d never have to--…”

“Remember a thing,” the memories said. Sam thought he should be happy, but there was a lingering worry, dragging at the back of his mind.

“…You said it wasn’t over,” he murmured, but the memories only looked on at him steadily.

“You have to see these things…” Jess murmured behind him, and Sam shut his eyes slowly.

“No,” the memories said, almost gently. “Not over yet. There is one more thing. One more decision you have to make.”

Sam swallowed, and he could smell her behind him. He thought he’d done what she’d asked. He’d looked. He’d seen Susan Coechiro. He thought he’d done whatever it was she wanted him to do.

“Sam,” she said, quieter, but more resolutely. She came through clearer, here, in dreams, in the unknown space.

His eyes opened. Something about her voice…

He turned to look at her, eyes wide.

“…you’re not talking to me,” he said, with quavering realization.

And she wasn’t. She wasn’t even looking at him. She was crouched on the ground, cradling something against her chest.

“Sam…” she said. “It is in you.” 

Sam frowned, taking an uncertain step forward. He could see blood all over the ground, blood all over her.

“I don’t want this,” a voice that wasn’t a voice whispered, from the other side of her.

“What you want isn’t always what you get,” she responded, moving her hand to whatever(whoever?) it was she was holding. 

Sam could hear his breath burning in his lungs. He walked forward, as if in a daze. 

“It is in you…You have to face it. You have to see these things.” Her voice was gentle but firm, and Sam remembered that. He remembered how she’d talk him into things, how she’d change his mind without ever ordering him around. “You have to look. You can’t fight it if you can’t face it.”

Sam heard a muffled sob.

“Shh, Sammy…” she murmured, but _not to Sam_. Sam could hear his breath picking up with panic as he walked around her, looking at the bloody mess in her arms.

It was a child. An infant.

Its body was torn asunder, blood and intestines all over the place, with its ribcage and gut bared and bones cracked backwards. Some of its ribs were missing.

It was in constant pain, and it was crying.

“Sammy…” Sam murmured, sinking down to his knees. He looked at the baby in Jessica’s arms, and she looked at him.

“So…” she said, after a moment. “You finally arrived.”

“Oh, god…” Sam sobbed and reached out bloody claws, carefully shifting the body he’d rent apart into his own arms, looking down at him, recognizing his own face in the babe’s scarred facade. His claws shook, and he remembered digging them in, tearing this one small soul apart until he had room to fit, until this body had become his. “God, I’m so sorry…” He touched the child’s face gently, but his claws cut the delicate skin.

“…please, just let me go,” the child asked. He had no mouth anymore, it had been torn from his chin. He had only pain wracked blue eyes, and he did not speak in words. “Please…”

Sam hung his head and choked.

“Sam,” Jess said, and he could tell that she was talking to him this time. “Sam. You can’t run anymore.” There was a pause. “Sam. Look at me.”

He lifted his head slowly, looking at her, still burning bright and untouched, so white and amazing in this bleak landscape. All this time, it hadn’t been him she was trying to save. 

“…You are in him,” she said, repeating the message she’d tried to impart to Sam’s brother, but failed. “You are in him.”

Sam’s head dropped, and tears ran heavy over his cheeks.

\----

Sam’s head dropped, and tears ran heavy over his cheeks.

He drew in a ragged breath and lifted his unmarred hand to wipe his cheeks, the other still dripping slowly against the warehouse floor. It was the least of all things, now.

Sam turned, looking through the haze of where the demon had stood a moment before, and looked at his brother.

“Are you okay?” he asked, gently.

Even in the poorly lit warehouse, Dean could see the tears on his little brother's cheeks. He felt concern, first, and then confusion, and he crossed the warehouse floor, uncertainty warring with the jubilation burgeoning in his breast.

"I'm fine. All here." He smiled and it was happy, and it was tight. "You did good, Sammy..." He squinted in his concern, reaching out towards the younger man. "What's wrong?"

Sam rolled his lower lip through his teeth and smiled a little.

He leaned in and kissed Dean, lingering there, over his brother's lips. He sniffed a bit, and didn't quite draw back. 

"...one inevitable conclusion," he murmured, and a smile broke larger on his lips as he thought of what the memories had said, what he'd seen in that grey city.

"Yeah. Bastard's dead." Dean hung his hands against Sam's waist, clutching his brother's coat. He matched Sam's smile, hope inside him, and the relief surging over his reservations. "You finished him, man." After two decades of struggle, it was impossible to wrap his mind around, even though he'd seen it with his own eyes.

Sam pursed his lips and shook his head. Dean wouldn't like what he had to say. It was Dean's hope, more than anything else, that he was afraid of breaking.

"It's not finished yet, Dean..." His eyes moved up to meet his brother's, a calmness in them. "One more demon."

Dean's brow knit above the wide open joy on his face. There was no comprehending what Sam was saying. A willful incomprehension.

"Shh..." Sam murmured, his hand brushing against Dean's face, even though they weren't there yet. "Your brother's still here...He's not alive and he’s not dead, and he can't move on. Because I'm wearing his body around. He can't move on because his body's still alive." He rested their foreheads together. " I know now. I know, Dean. And there's still one demon left."

Dean let go of Sam, falling a step back to look up at him, his eyes wide and his face blank.

"...don't talk like that. There's gotta be some way..."

Sam shook his head slowly, but there were no more tears. He didn't look scared, or even all that sad.

"...You raised me, man." Sam smiled with the sweetness of that memory. "You raised me and if I ignore this, if I just let this go...I won't be any better than those monsters we kill. I won't be any better than him." Sam gestured to the hot air where the demon had burned up, not a mark remaining save the warm temperature. "I don't want to live like a monster. I want to die like a man. Like the man you raised me to be."

Dean stared at him, stricken, and all that relief and happiness inside him twisted into denial, and the palpations of panic beat within his chest.

"You're just gonna leave me?" he spat accusatively, hurt beyond reason cutting deep and leaving him raw.

"It's not about that," Sam said softly. "I just have to leave."

Dean blinked against the hot tears stinging in his eyes unshed, and even as he ached with the fear of loss, he wanted to reach out to Sam -- the brother who'd eased that dark chasm inside him shut, and shut forever.

"Why're you givin' up on me, Sam? Just give me a month, give me _two_ months, give me time to look..."

"No, Dean. Not this time." Sam was sure, and his voice booked no argument. "You can't save me this time." He didn't mean that Dean was unable to do so. This time, he wouldn't allow it.

Dean's face crumpled, and he struggled against a growing desperation.

"How about you save you?" he asked, he pleaded, and his voice was weak.

Sam reached out and took one of Dean's hands in both of his own.

"Your little brother needs saving," Sam said, his voice more of a whisper. "I understand what you were saying...I know the way out, now. There's a life that needs more saving than mine."

"Forget what I said," Dean begged, and he was whispering, too, but he didn't mean it. He said it and he knew he didn't. He imagined his little brother, his real little brother, not alive and not dead, dragged through the years like a dog leashed to a moving car. A tear ran hot over his cheek, and he hated himself for even saying it. He was ashamed, suddenly and deeply.

Sam lifted one of his hands, thumb brushing Dean's tear away gently, pad smoothing over Dean's rough skin.

More tears followed.

"I'm sorry," he said, and not to Sam, his voice shaking. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

"I know..." Sam said, understandingly. He lowered his hand from Dean's face, back to where their hands were joined. He lifted Dean's hand, bending his head to kiss the knuckles softly. "It's okay, Dean. It'll be okay. He's waiting to meet you."

Dean tried to face Sam's words. What Sam was telling him. And he trusted him. And he believed him. But he didn't understand him.

"You sent those ghosts...The one in Maine...the one in Nevada...You sent the demon...Can't you--..."

"No," Sam shook his head slowly. "They were already dead. Just...needed someone to tell them. And the demon...That was death altogether. Sam--...Sammy...Samuel. I saw him, Dean. His soul can't come back to his body, but he can't move on either. Not while his heart is still beating..." Sam stepped back. He paused, then crouched down, picking up the gun that had been pulled out of Dean's hands by the demon. He put it back in those hands, folding Dean's fingers over the cool metal. "...But you can save him." 

The gun felt heavier in Dean's hands than a gun could feel, and his palms, frigid from the cold, felt colder still.

He opened his mouth. He opened his mouth to protest. It was crazy. It was insane. It wasn't fair. It was too much, too soon, happiness obliterated by an ultimatum he'd heard and couldn't believe.

He had the selfish and greedy will to deny Sam this, but then he imagined Sam. He imagined his Sammy shooting himself in the head, and that he couldn't take, salty drops of water trickling over his cheeks, the image too cruel.

"He's waitin' to meet me, hunh?" he asked hesitantly, shaky with a too-fragile smile.

"Of course," Sam said, with total certainty. "You're his big brother." It hurt, a little, to give this man over to someone else. But Dean hadn't been his to claim. He'd _stolen_ him, just like he'd stolen this whole life, and he knew it was time to give it back.

"Sam..." Dean choked raggedly, has hands tightening against the unforgiving metal of the gun, and his shoulders shook with a tremulous sob.

He wanted to talk. Babble. He wanted to fill up fifty years he couldn't have. He wanted to kiss Sam. He wanted to drag him to the cold cement floor and bring their bodies together and pretend there was no world but the two of them. He wanted to go fishing in the summertime. He wanted to go to an amusement park. He wanted to raise Sam's children. But there was one thing he was rapidly realizing he had to do. One thing Sam was asking from him. The gun was in his hands, but he didn't even know how to begin. 

"Shhh..." Sam said again. "You're stronger than you think you are," he repeated. "You have everything you need, now, and you deserve more than this...And this...This is what _I_ deserve, Dean." He stroked over the side of his sibling's head, not looking upset, or guilty, or scared. 

"Things you've done," Dean told him, and his cheeks were wet with tears but when he spoke, his voice was firm. "People you've saved...Much as you've done for me." He smiled sad and grim, and watched Sam's eyes. "I can't give you what you deserve, little brother," he apologized. He could only give him what he held in his hands. The same absolution that Sam had given him for sins that numbered in the thousands.

Sam smiled and shut his eyes, leaning his head down just enough to rest their foreheads together, breathing the same air. Their bodies swayed a little, Sam's hand at Dean's neck, leaving little bloody smears from his clotting wounds.

Dean knew the only brother he'd known was leaving, and still he didn't feel alone. That unexpected fortitude surprised him, for all the years he'd spent giving away everything inside him to John and to Sam. Dean shifted the gun to his left and hand and touched Sam's side, knuckles resting against his jacket.

Sam smiled a little when he opened his eyes, when he looked at Dean's and saw the strength he'd always, always known was there. The will to live that had only started setting up residence a little while ago. The will that'd replaced a desperate need to end.

"...You can do better. Than all this." Sam's voice was soft. "You're a good man."

Dean's hand slid up a little around Sam's back, fingers clutching the fabric there, the slightest gesture, a hug, and Dean slowly opened his eyes, and he raised them to his brother's. He hurt, but it was only by the bruise of reality crashing into him. It didn't hurt to hear those words. 

That tiny spark of self esteem had kindled and become a flame. The smallest of lights, but glowing steady, a light that showed in his face, that showed intangibly but certainly behind his eyes. He had yet to recognize it within himself for what it was.

He looked at Sam, at the face he knew so well. He'd watched it change from pudgy baby fat to the strong, flat angles now over the course of his entire, young life. He'd been the first person to hold Sam. The first person Sam saw when he came into the world, black heart and innocent conscious. He knew the measure of the man Sam had become. Every inch of him. And he was proud. More than proud.

"I love you." No punch line. No banter. Three words, and he didn't know why he'd waited so long to say them, but his voice was firm and clear. 

Sam leaned in, their noses brushing slightly. He watched his brother, the face he'd known all his life, all the life that he remembered. 

"Like stupid," Sam whispered in return, with a slight smile.

Dean smiled. He wasn't crying. His eyes had dried, and he knew he'd cry. He knew he'd spend a long time crying. But the time for tears wasn't now. He wouldn't let his brother die seeing his crying face. He loved him too much for that.

Sam took a slow step back, giving them just a little distance.

"Dean..." he murmured. He licked his lips, then bowed his head a bit, lifting his uninjured hand, pressing his index finger against his right cheek lightly. "...here."

Dean's eyes flickered with memories of months and years past, and he slowly raised his hand to cup Sam's head, and his smile warmed. He rose up on his toes, pressing his lips against the spot Sam marked.

Sam smiled, letting out a slightly shaky breath.

"Here..." he tapped his lips.

Dean knew. He knew in that moment that their eyes met, but he kissed Sam's lips, love and gratitude. Because it was too much and too hard, but not this. This was their childhood, a hundred nights tucking Sam in bed. The kiss wasn't as chaste as all that, and it lingered, lips mingling, tongues brushing wet and slow. It ended too soon, and Dean's hand remained longer, but seconds passed, and finally, Dean let go.

Sam breathed again, the feel of Dean still heavy and welcome on his lips. He shut his eyes for only a second, and began to take steps backwards when he opened them again, spreading his arms wide as he did so. 

He stopped only when he was a few yards from Dean, a safe firing distance.

"Here," he concluded, moving his hand to touch the space on his forehead, between his eyes. He lowered his head, and looked at Dean unflinching, even though his heart beat wildly in his chest.

He didn't _want_ to leave this life. But it wasn't about what he wanted.

Dean looked down at the gun in his hand, took it in his right, and pushed back the hammer. His hand shook, and he waited a moment, and he focused, and he stopped that trembling. It was a gun to fire with one hand, left hand hanging at his side, and it wasn't until he'd raised the weapon that he looked at Sam. Looked at his little brother down the barrel of a gun. Firmed his jaw. Held back the tears as emotion swelled in his throat. It was Sam's smile he remembered. Sam laughing. Long hours in bed together. Dates, and so many car rides that stretched on for miles. It was Sam's face he saw, alive and trusting. Trusting absolutely.

It was the easiest and the hardest thing in the world to pull that trigger. Gunfire cracked in the still night air, and Dean closed his eyes.

Sam felt the bullet impact him at the same time he heard the gunshot. There was a moment of searing pain as the bullet burned him, and then he felt the force push him back.

He didn't try to fight it, or stay upright, just let gravity and physics take him and he was falling. He couldn't feel the bullet anymore, as it began to pass through his grey matter, soft and nerveless. His arms were still outstretched, and he felt the air, still warm from the demon's death, flying past him.

Everything was slow, and there wasn't sound anymore, and his eyes were mostly shut. It wasn't so bad.

He almost gasped when he felt it leave him, finally, when his heart shuddered weakly and gave out, just before the bullet exploded out the back of his head. He felt that tiny soul finally lift and leave, and that guilt, that heavy sensation he'd carried around all his life, the terrible feeling that had always kept him separate from his family, always made him hesitate before doing anything, finally left, and he knew he'd done the right thing.

One. Selfless. Act.

The beauty of it, the freedom of it wrapped itself around him, and he felt whole, he felt filled. He felt _fulfilled_. He hadn't expected it. He hadn't looked for it. He hadn't done this for himself. He hadn't even done it for the people he loved. It was for a little boy he'd never known, never really met.

The concrete rush cold up to meet him, but before it did, he thought: _I am Becoming_. 

And then he thought nothing at all.

Dean opened his eyes, and the world was still there. The night quiet except for the gentle, far off lapping of water. The gun in his hand. His hand lowered to his side. His brother's body crumpled on the cement floor. Sam's blood pooling and cooling. It's metallic scent thickening in the air.

He thought that there should be more. He didn't feel anything, yet. He sank to his knees, and he sat the gun down in front of him with a trembling hand. It sank in only slowly that he felt no desire to turn it around on himself.

It was then that he cried.


	26. Epilogue

Dean showed up outside of Cassie’s apartment in Saint Louis at two am, but he slept in the white rental Toyota until seven o’clock, when she’d be up and maybe there’d be breakfast. There was a man standing behind her when she answered the door, but she said _Dean_ , reached out to hug him, and he wrapped his arms around her. He hadn’t told her anything on the phone except he needed a place to crash for a few days. That he needed a friend. And Cassie knew him well enough to know there wasn’t anybody else.

“You want some coffee?” she offered. She knew him. She knew he’d tell her what was on his mind in his own time. She’d known that when they were together, but she’d always pushed it, anyway.

“Coffee’d be great.” He nodded to her boyfriend. The man nodded back. He wasn’t bad looking, Dean thought. Taller than Dean was, but not as tall as Sam had been, clear, dark eyes and skin two shades darker than Cassie’s. He had a long face, a narrow face, but a clean cut jaw, firm edges. Looked like a man. He had a narrow body, and most people weren’t built like Dean was, but he was fit and trim -- that Gold’s Gym never-fought-for-his-life trim. Dean realized he was immediately comparing him to himself and admitted that wasn’t what he was going for, so he offered him a smile, and the man smiled back. 

_I’d hit it,_ Dean approved. (He wouldn’t. With the penis and all. But _if he was into that kind of thing_.)

Cassie led them into the kitchen and was pouring coffee into a black mug that said RTFM in white letters before she made introductions. The kitchen smelled like eggs and bacon, but the pans and plates were in the sink.

“Dean, this is Reshay. Reshay, this is Dean Winchester.” She offered Reshay a playful smile as she passed Dean the mug. “Like the rifle.”

Dean squinted at the letters and had no idea what they meant, but the coffee was still good.

“Nice to meet you, man,” Reshay said, and offered a hand, and Dean took it, grimacing that first _Coffee is good_ face of the morning and forcing a tight smile through it.

It’d been two weeks. Two weeks and four days.

“Have you eaten anything?”

Dean shook his head. He watched Cassie take stock of her kitchen and set to work. 

“How’s the job?” he asked, not making small talk, but because he discovered he wanted to know.

“I just got my first raise,” Cassie admitted, ducking her head with humility. She looked great, Dean thought. She looked happy.

Dean knew what he looked like. Like death dragged over hot coals. He’d shaved his beard down to his usual scruff of stubble, and he’d pushed a wet hand of gel through his hair, but there was no hiding the haggard pallor to his face. No hiding dry cheeks cracked from salty tears.

He let her cook him breakfast, and she and her boyfriend sat at the table with him. There was a silence between them. Dean wasn’t ready to speak, Cassie was waiting, and Reshay leaned back in his chair, out of place in his own apartment but neither Cassie nor Dean needed him to leave, or minded if he stayed.

The kitchen lights glinted off the gems on Cassie’s ring finger, a pale blue stone and six small diamonds set in silver.

“When’s the wedding?”

“Next February.” Cassie slid her hand across the table to twine her fingers with her fiancée. “We’d have it sooner, but his twin sister’s getting married in December.” She rolled her eyes -- that was what she thought about that.

“ _Both_ love the spotlight,” Reshay leaned in and confided to Dean, and Dean chuckled. Cassie made that all-annoyed face Dean knew real well.

\----

_Sam's eyes were closed, and there was no horror-filled expression on his face, no fear or worry. No loss. His face was lax in death, but there seemed to be some peace about him._

_John didn't show up until an hour and a half after Sam had died. The oldest of the Winchesters had been there, just as Dean had predicted, and spent the entirety of his night watching over security. Had they not given him so much trouble, he surely would have interrupted the fight, despite Sam's demands._

_He walked across the floor, and it didn't take him long to surmise that one of his children was dead. When he saw Dean alive and moving, he felt both a breath of relief that this son was alive, and a breath of despair that the other wasn't._

_"_ Dean _," he said, heavily. "What happened?"_

\----

Dean heard them talking about him in their bedroom when he walked to the bathroom: nine o’clock at night, muted voices, but Cassie’s stopped him in his tracks.

“Dean doesn’t _have_ friends,” Cassie was saying.

“Sounds like a great guy.” Reshay was skeptical.

“He is.” There was an assertion in Cassie’s voice that lodged Dean’s heart in his throat. (He felt stupid. Did he think Cassie would snipe behind his back?) “He’s just not like other people,” she said. “He has this job…I can’t even talk about it. It’s that kind of job. Try and be friendly. Please. For me.”

Dean swallowed his emotions and he went to take a piss.

\----

_"It's--" John began, but he realized almost immediately how ridiculous 'it's okay' sounded right now. He moved forward, and knelt down on the other side of Sam's body, shock moving him and keeping the heaviness of grief at bay._

_He stopped, confused, when he saw the bullet hole so clear in the center of Sam's forehead. He reached out, touch it with rough, slightly dirty hands. He paused, then looked at his eldest for explanations._

_"Dean?"_

_The way Dean stared at John, searching his eyes, begging understanding, it seemed for moments that he'd lost the power, the ability to speak -- struck trauma mute. His mouth struggled dumbly, and then a slow relaxation came over him, and he began to feel numb._

_"He asked," he said, confessed. "He asked." His brow furrowed as if he couldn't quite grasp what he was saying. "...he asked." He was stuck, repeating it._

_"Oh, god," John couldn't help but say, the minute he realized._

_"He asked," Dean murmured, as if he was starting to accept it. "He asked," he repeated, weakly, looking down at his brother's pale and lifeless body, and he lapsed into silence, wanting fervently for Sam to open his eyes. To touch him. To speak. And that...and that...And that...(that)...was never..._

_"_ Why? _" John reached out, over Sam's body, grabbing his traumatized son by the shoulder's, looking him in the eyes pleadingly. "Dean--...Why?"_

\----

“My brother’s dead.”

They were sitting on the couch watching the commercials flash by, Cassie curled against Reshay, two beers on the table and one in Dean’s hand.

Dean had only just accepted there was no right time.

He didn’t look at Cassie or at Reshay, but in the corner of his eye he saw their expressions slowly change. Cassie untangled herself carefully from her lover's arms, and walked the two steps down to Dean. Sinking onto the cushion next to him, she gently took the beer from his hand and she set it on the table. She wrapped her arms around him. Reshay turned off the television as Dean’s shoulders began to shake, and Dean cried.

\----

_Dean couldn’t drive. He could barely speak two words or do more than help his father load Sam’s body in the back of the Sierra. So John told him to clean out the car and get in the cab, and he put the Mazda in neutral and pushed it off the dock. He watched it until it sank, unwilling to leave their fingerprints behind with the amount of blood on the warehouse floor, and both of them in the system already.._

_It was miles down the road before his tears caught up with him again. He sucked air in through his teeth, sniffed through his nose, held his head in his hand, and slumped slowly against the passenger side door._

_John was so intent on getting them out of there safe that for awhile he forgot that Sam was dead, and kept thinking they'd meet up with him in awhile. It was only when Dean started crying that John remembered, and, despite himself, he began to feel tears track over his rough cheeks._

_Eventually it was hard to see, so he pulled the truck over to the side of the road._

_John looked over at his first born, his only born, now, but didn't really know what to say. He was good at comforting, but not like this. Not in a raw aftermath._

_He could tell Sammy he was sorry about his girl, but only months afterwards, when things had settled down enough that a quiet mutter was sufficient._

_And it had been a long time since he'd lost anything himself._

_He reached over, putting his hand on Dean's shoulder._

_Dean's sore eyes fluttered open, and he squinted out the window, the sunlight harsh against his eyes. His father was a man for hugs (if not much else). Dean knew he could ask for more of that comfort and his father might be a little confused or a little uncomfortable if his grown son tried crawling in his lap like a three year old, but whatever stupid way Dean reacted he would probably get comfort for it._

_He didn't feel like he needed that though. His world wasn't over. It was only the pain of a separation, sudden, unexpected, and absolute. He only needed to catch up with it. A long and winding way and not knowing what to do with himself but knowing, somehow, he had_ survived _his brother's death, and that single moment afterwards the only moment of real danger._

_Still, he took solace from his father. Still. He wasn't alone. No matter how strange and empty his world was. And he looked at him, eyes sore and red and gratitude in them. But he was only hurting. Not completely undone._

_But John still pulled him there -- maybe because he needed to feel useful, maybe because he needed the comfort himself, maybe because he assumed Dean did. Maybe because they'd just lost another family member, even if Sam hadn't started out that way, and after that...you hugged._

_Not gruff, manly hugs with a clap on the back and a little sway. John scooted halfway across the bench seat and pulled Dean into an actual embrace, like he hadn't in so, so many years._

\----

“Sammy told me he wanted more for me.” Dean and Cassie sat at the kitchen table, Reshay emptying the dishwasher and the afternoon sun spilling over the tiled floor. “I think he wanted me to get out of the business. And it’s not like I feel like I owe it to him but…I think I want to. At least for awhile.” He laughed sorrowfully. “Just don’t even know how to start.”

“Wait right here,” Cassie told him. She left, and there was only the ceramic clatter of plates. She came back with a piece of card paper in her hand, and she slid it across the table. There were silver wedding bells embossed on the card, twining ribbons embossed around its edges. “Come to our wedding, Dean. Meet people. Talk. Make friends. If you want, I can get you a job in Saint Louis.”

“Guess now would be the time to tell you I’m technically, legally deceased.” Dean smiled ruefully. Nothing in his life was simple.

Reshay sat the glass he was holding down on the counter and turned to face their drawn and exhausted guest.

“Man, what is it you _do_?”

“You’re not cleared for that kind of information, soldier,” Dean joked, turning that sad smile into a playful grin and taking a sip of the mug of coffee in front of him. (“Read the Fucking Manual.” Reshay had majored in computer science.)

“Can you even get out of a job like that?”

“It’s not ‘Alias,’” Dean promised. “I’m not Jennifer Garner. Nobody’ll shoot me.” He wagged an eyebrow at Cassie. “We woulda made _hot_ lesbians.”

“We _were_ hot lesbians, Dean,” Cassie promised.

“Ouch.” Dean recoiled in hurt.

“You do…kind of have the lips,” Reshay pointed out, apologetically.

“You know what?” Dean set his mug of coffee down firm on the table. “Maybe I don’t _want_ friends.”

\----

_Dean sniffled and snotted and shivered against his father's neck, and his little hiccupping breaths began to slow as he relaxed._

_There was no demon. No danger. It occurred to him suddenly and profoundly. They were just two men, father and son, coping with their loss, and there was no crusade lying ahead of them. No hand of fate steering their course. They were completely and utterly free to be as miserable as they needed, and, for once, for finally, he had his father back. Not exactly the father left behind in that house in Lawrence, but close as could come._

_That revelation squeezed a few more tears from his aching eyes. His father's arms were strong and Dean needed their shelter. He remembered being small, and rocked this way, when he thought his father was the answer to all the world's ills._

_Wracked raw by his pain, exhausted from fighting and worse from crying, Dean dozed off uneasily against his father's shoulder. He knew from years of wounds and blood that the pain wouldn't be gone when he awoke. Sam wouldn't be any less dead. It was no fleeting dream, but a reality he'd live with the rest of his natural life._

_Pierce's words drifted back to him in that place between the waking world and his dreams._

_“_ When that body gives out, he’s finished. He won’t return to Hell. He won’t wander as a spirit. He won’t move on to another life. When that heart stops, he’ll decay with that flesh, suffocating slowly in the ground -- or he’ll go out quick, if you burn him. _”_

_"We burn him," Dean whispered thickly, as dreams flashed dimly on the backs of his eyes. He couldn't bear the idea of his brother's spirit struggling blind and more and more sluggishly to escape a body returning to dust. He wanted there to be more than that for Sam...but he couldn't be certain. He loved him too much to hold onto him, leave him suffering._

\----

Dean sat on the bar stool next to Reshay, matching him for shots, whiskey and rum. The bar was large and there was light enough to see by, big screen TVs hanging on two walls and one behind the bar. Dean never drank in places like this. The Detroit Red Wings were playing the St. Louis Blues. Hockey fans drank together, cheering and booing as their team chased the puck across the ice. One lonely Detroit fan sat at a corner table and expressed his jubilations in silence. Dean had never followed sports, a foreigner in a strange land. (Except Foreigner had actually done real well overseas.)

It was usually Cassie and Reshay together, Cassie told him, but she wanted him to go out. Practice his complete lack of conversation skills, she said.

“Me and Cassie…It wasn’t like you and Cassie,” Dean was promising with a smirk. “There was more yelling.” He knocked back the shot of whiskey. Who knew geeks drank? His only model had been Sam, and Sam could barely walk on three watered down Buds. “Not sayin’ we…hurt each other. Nothin’ like that. We just both thought the relationship should be this one. thing. When it wasn’t…We went at it like cats.”

“I’ve gotten her annoyed,” Reshay laughed. “I’ve seen her mad at other people. I don’t envy you, man.”

“It’s cool, man. It was okay.” Dean shrugged. “I love her, you know? Just not like you love her. Now, I did for awhile…”

“I’d tell you, ‘You try to get her back, I’ll kill you.’” Reshay mock-threatened him. “But, dude, I don’t think I could kill you.”

“Dude, you don’t even know,” Dean laughed. “You got no idea.” He clapped Reshay on the back. “No, man. You’re great. You two. You’re great together. You make those mushy faces. She smiles.” He glanced at the scoreboard on the television screen, but it didn’t really mean anything to him other than Detroit was clearly winning. “Never seen her like this. All happy to load the dishwasher…”

“Girl out there for you,” Reshay promised, waving the bar tender to bring them something to drink. _Beer_ , he called, and Dean affirmed, _Beer!_ and raised his empty shot glass. “Guy like you,” Reshay went on. “You seem alright.” He shrugged. “Maybe got some kind of…‘Metal Gear Solid’ thing going.”

“What?”

“James Bond meets Rambo.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughed. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, man, maybe.”

“Brother in the same line of work you were?” Reshay had stopped asking what line of work that was.

“We were a team,” Dean confirmed. “ _Years_.” Dean looked around the bar, a little bleary eyed. “You know, I’ve never done this. Drinkin’ with the guys. Bars I go to…Dives, man. Hustle some pool.”

“And you hustle pool. How’d Cassie let a catch like you go?”

“Willpower and fortitude.”

“She’s got those.”

“Hey,” Dean noticed. “Saint Louis caught up.”

“You follow hockey?”

“Don’t know a damn thing about it.” Dean licked his lips and nodded to the bar tender as the man sat down two cold beers. Grinned wide. “Like it when they start layin’ in on each other, though.”

“Not like it used to be,” Reshay lamented. “New regulations. Shit used to go _down_ out there. Used to order two pizzas and place bets on who’d rip loose.”

“Maybe I shoulda watched less prime time TV,” Dean appreciated.

They stayed at the bar until eleven o’clock and took a taxi back to the apartment.

\----

_They built the pyre far off from human habitation in those northwestern woods that stretched for miles. Dean explained nothing, but he took no chances, pouring accelerant over that burial shroud -- the bottle from his car, and half the one from John's. And then he shook the salt out over Sam, a strange gesture, slow and reverent when their burials and reburials were always fast and dirty. His hand shook, and his eyes were sad, but they were sure._

_John helped Dean lift the body up on to the pyre, watched Dean gently, carefully apply the salt all over Sam's body._

_John flicked out one of his knives, and cut the death shroud, near Sam's face, baring it to the sky._

_"...don't like him goin' blind," John explained weakly, as he tucked his knife back._

_Dean closed the salt and sat it next to the bottles of accelerant. He straightened, offering his father a smile, strung out thin, but perceptible. He dug in his pocket for a Zippo, brow furrowing._

_He felt like there should be words, but Winchesters had never been very religious, and he didn't know if he believed in good the way he believed in evil._

_John didn't have words like that in him, didn't have_ belief _like that in him. But there were things to say anyways that didn't have to do with any god or goddess._

_He put a hand on Sam's forehead._

_"...night, Sammy."_

_Dean stepped up, when John moved away, to his brother, Sam's body, smelling of salt and kerosene. Dean clutched the lighter in his left hand. Sam's peaceful face was marred by that bullet hole, the hole brown with dried blood, and dried blood on Sam's skin, and in his hair._

_Dean's father was standing behind him. A part of Dean wanted to respect that, leave boundaries safely drawn. He just loved Sam more than that, and he pressed a chaste kiss against his brother's cold lips that tasted like Everclear but oily and worse (the kerosene that would reduce him to ashes and memories)._

_"Thanks, little brother," he told him, close to his face, close to Sam's ear, like Sam could hear him._

_When he drew back, he flicked that lighter open, and he set his brother's body alight, sucking that taste from his lips as the first scent of fire in his nostrils._

_John didn't do anything when Dean kissed his dead brother, just held his breath, not particularly surprised. It was something that would always bother him, but at this point they were beyond approval and disapproval. Sam was dead, and if John understood what Dean was telling him, Sam had died to free Sammy's little spirit, and John couldn't help but appreciate that, no matter what._

_He watched the flame spring up, watched it quickly cover the body, burning bright on the pyre, flames licking up into the sky._

\----

Dean left Saint Louis with a wedding invitation tucked in his bag. He knew his father would want a phone call. That his father would want to know he was holding it together. John had been reluctant to let him out of his sight. He hadn’t said anything of the sort, but Dean saw it in his face.

Dean had spent his whole life thinking about family. After everything, with Sam’s ashes buried, John was the most important person in his world. But for once, he could see clearly what _he_ wanted. What he needed. So he didn’t call his father, because he wasn’t ready. He crossed the country to Jersey City, sleeping alone in dark motel rooms and watching prime time broadcasts and AMC ( _Cool Hand Luke_ , _Three Men and a Little Lady_ , and _Wolfen_ ). Two nights on the road and he reached the apartment of Ruth Feinman.

“I never know who’ll show up at my door, anymore,” the old woman said, squinting at him over new reading glasses.

Dean offered no greeting.

“I wanna know about demons.”

\----

Dean sat on Ruth’s couch, in her seventies-nostalgia apartment that hadn’t changed since the last time he saw it. The woman it housed hadn’t changed, except for the wire-rimmed glasses resting on her nose. Her sturdy, orange tabby cat was sniffing Dean’s boots.

Dean had spoken little to Ruth when he stayed in her apartment, before. When he’d realized the things he wanted to know, he’d thought of Missouri and he’d thought of Bobby and he’d thought of Ruth, the people he’d known with real spiritual experience. Missouri’s knowledge was intuitive, and Bobby had sent his father on to Ruth.

“I need to know why my brother doesn’t have a soul,” he told her, gaze steady on her face, but pleading. Ruth folded her boney hands in her lap, and her cat, Pumpkin, leapt into Dean’s.

“That’s a difficult question,” Ruth admitted. “No one knows the origin of demons. We haven’t agreed on the origin of our own species, and even the demons may not know for certain.”

“Then not _why_ , but…what’s it mean? When somebody says he doesn’t have a soul -- what’s that _mean_?” 

Ruth watched her cat waddling in denim-kneading circle before sprawling itself out over their visitor, and lines formed in her wrinkled brow as she collected her thoughts, before she glanced up at Dean. 

“Good and evil aren’t two polar opposites, two equal natures. Good is what we see, and touch, and taste around us. When something is evil, it _lacks_ that which would make it good. Evil is not a thing, but an absence.” Ruth smoothed her skirts over her thighs. “I have heard many explanations for this depravity--”

“Big words,” Dean said. “They burn.”

“Depravity isn’t a ‘big’ word, Dean Winchester,” Ruth corrected, flinching, and she sighed at the uncomprehending expression Dean showed her. “Either demons are refuse,” she clarified, “of some extinct world, or they are creatures who for whatever reason never achieved their full potential.” She paused, pursing her thin lips. “I imagine them as animated by some divine spark. Indeed, as far as I know, all things must be. You have that light inside you, and it shines, and it resonates with the light and the life of the universe, so that even if you do not know it, and have a very poor vocabulary to _express_ it, you see all things good in the world. You see the light inside of others. Inside of me and in my cat.”

Dean looked down at the comfortable tabby lolling in his lap, and scratched it behinds its ear, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to imagine exactly what this had to do with Sam.

“Imagine a creature,” Ruth went on, “A creature that has twisted in on the spark of life within itself. Become obsessed with it. Become infatuated. A creature that believes the world has no other precious things to offer. It wraps itself around that light. It suffocates it. It _consumes_ it. Until that light is reduced to a cinder. And until that cinder is reduced to an ash. That is a demon, obsessed with only itself, consuming to survive, and disappearing.” She reached up to adjust the glasses pinching the bridge of her nose. “The divine cannot be destroyed, and I imagine that ash will be in some way recycled. But the life it allowed flourish is truly and utterly no more.”

Dean traced his thumb over Pumpkin’s moist little pink nose, over the firm curve of his muzzle and his tiny kitty eyebrows.

“Sam’s dead. And Pierce…this demon, Pierce, he told me demons like them, they’re trapped in their bodies, and they end.” It hurt to admit, to imagine. Dean knew it would never stop hurting.

Ruth softened, understanding, and afraid she had no words to soothe a young man tortured by such a harsh reality. 

“You want to believe that Sam was different. That he was special somehow. Because you loved him.” There was an apology in her gravely voice. “You have to understand that he could never love you. Even if he seemed in every way your brother.” 

“That’s not--…” Dean bit off his words, but their ferocity made Pumpkin blink his big orange eyes and raise his head.

“I spoke with Samuel, and I have examined the girl staying with your father’s friend Robert. It’s true there’s something strange about them.” Ruth admitted it only slowly. She didn’t want to give the young man before her false hope. “Demons, like the dead, are wedded to their patterns. It’s the reason we believe they may have come from some world before. It’s their complete and total self obsession that gives them the powers they possess, and it’s the same with ghosts. They warp existence around them to fit their whims and fancies. They wield the life inside them as a weapon, further perverting it.

“The difference is that ghosts can be broken of their patterns. A ghost sees the light inside a living human and reaches out towards it. We can correct their impulses, though often we must use force. A demon destroys blindly, and then it dies.” Ruth shook her head. “But these children. These bound demons. It’s as if they’re half awake from a dream. They cannot understand us, and they are still so selfish, involved in their own world, but like a sleep talker answering my questions, they seem to have some inkling that I am there outside them. It could be why nothing conventional works on them. The force of an external will is not completely incomprehensible to them.”

“But this thing on my stomach. It stopped ‘em cold.”

“The rituals you used, the ones that worked, they would also stop a human psychic.”

“So Dad’s friend Missouri, she can’t pick on me anymore, either?” Dean grinned a little at that idea, although his whole body felt heavy.

“Missouri Mosely…?” Ruth nodded slowly. “Women and men like her can no longer affect you.”

“You said he’s nothing but selfish. But he wasn’t.” Dean’s mind began to piece together the information he’d been given. “We coulda had it good. He got a rein on those powers of his, and he still didn’t _remember_. Wasn’t like somebody just offed him. When he died, he…I shot him. Because he asked. Not for me, even, not to help me or somebody he cared about. Because my little brother’s soul was stuck in that body and maybe it was hurtin’ or something.”

Ruth sat silent, lost in consideration. The cat had returned to purring in Dean’s lap, and Dean played with its feet, pressing the pads and watching the long claws extend, with a desperate hope inside him.

“…it’s not the act of a demon.”

Dean looked up. That hope caught fire in his eyes. Ruth was solemn.

“I don’t know, Dean,” she admitted, the weight of years in her words. “I don’t have an answer.” 

“But it could happen?” Dean pursued urgently.

“Ask yourself that,” Ruth told him. “You’ve known him better than I ever could.”

Dean lapsed into silence, tasting disappointment, but not devastation.

He stayed in Ruth’s house for three days, and he played with her cat, and he bathed in the shower where Sam had told him he just might fall in love with him, and remembered every time Sam had told him _I love you_ , and told himself that was real. The old woman didn’t seem to mind. She went on with her business, and let him watch her television. He waited, and wished, but she offered him no better answers. 

On the fourth day, he called his father, and told him he was coming back. He said goodbye to Ruth, sitting in her chair and reading. She looked up, and for awhile she said nothing at all.

"You never know," she said, with that thoughtful expression on her face, busy with theories and possibilities. "We all gave up something to be here, to have these things. A soul isn't physical property. Some say it is the scar left by sacrifice. Some say it is the divine within us. Some say it is nothing more than our emotions. It’s immaterial. But who knows...maybe now he is as infinite as you are."

\----

Dean had expected John to drag him on the road again, off on another hunt and business as usual. He was shocked down to the bones when John suggested something different. Suggested they go _home_.

Lawrence looked just like it had when Dean had left it. They showed up at Missouri Mosely's door. She hadn’t been able to perceive either of them, with the old symbols on their skins, so she didn’t know either of them was coming, and she was so sorry about Sam when they told her. She hugged them both and chastised them for inviting themselves to come live in somebody's house without even a phone call, but she let them move in upstairs. She didn't need to read Dean's mind to know how to take care of a wounded spirit. She called Jenny and had her bring over her children, three lives Dean had saved, and Dean was great with kids. She chased John out of the house to go talk to his old business partner, Mike Guenther. John glowered and grumbled to the door, and Missouri hit him with a spoon.

Jenny ended up offering Dean a babysitting job after about a week. She handwaved his concerns and told him that it'd save her money on day-care and the kids would get to be home. Who better to look after the kids than the guy who could fight off just about anything, she said with an easy smile. 

The first time Dean walked up the steps to his childhood home, he thought no force on earth would get him to actually step over the threshold. Jenny answered the door, still putting on her earrings, with Ritchie holding onto her pants leg.

"Do you want to show Dean your new Elmo?"

Just like that, there was a little boy with dirty blonde hair dragging Dean by the hand to his old, childhood bedroom, and the shocked and disoriented expression on his face couldn't slow the kid down. Jenny just laughed, standing at the door to the bedroom while Ritchie dug his new doll out from his toy box.

"Juice is in the fridge. And there's chicken fingers for lunch. Nap at nine-thirty, and you pick Sari up at three fifteen. I left directions on the kitchen table."

Dean couldn't say anything, just nodded, looking from her to the kid and overwhelmed.

Jenny smiled and picked up her purse, tugging on her second boot.

"Sari! Time to go! Shoes on, please," she said, standing at the door. A couple seconds later Sari came running down the stairs with messy braids and her backpack on. "Oh!" Jenny tagged on as she was walking out the door. "The important numbers are on the fridge as well as my number at work. I'll be back around five!" She shut the door, and then Dean was in his childhood home, babysitting.

\----

"Kids are _work_ ," Dean complained, slouching on Missouri's sofa, and for once too tired to be mulling over the loss in his life.

"There's a reason you don't see no little Mississippi's runnin' around here," Missouri replied with a knowing look, but she got Dean a cup of tea.

"Look at me." Dean gestured broadly to his pants. "Ketchup every damn where." He took the tea gratefully. Caffeine was caffeine.

Missouri settled herself down in her usual chair with a contented sigh, murmuring _Language_ , but not too strict, holding her own cup. She smiled, though, looking over Dean and his messy shirt.

"You look good, though," she said, and took a sip. She couldn't read him anymore, which was an odd sensation, like looking at a blank wall. It had been a long time since she'd had to depend solely on the original five senses, but she was a more than competent woman. He looked tired, but it wasn't bone-weary tired. It was the kind of tired you got after a day of running around after a three year old. A good kind of tired.

"Where's Dad at?" Dean appreciated what his father was doing. Looking after him. Awkwardly, stuntedly being a father. But John didn't fit in in Lawrence anymore. Not even as much as Dean. Dean didn't doubt it'd only be a matter of months before John was dragged back into _his_ world, into the life he'd embraced.

"He's out back, fixin' the roof over my sun room," Missouri replied with that blithe ease that meant she'd bullied the man into doing it.

Dean grinned. Missouri had chased him all around the first time in his adult life that he met her, but he'd needed it, then, needed to get his mind off the fears inside him. When it was his father, so competitive and always top dog, getting that treatment, Dean enjoyed the _hell_ out of it.

"Hope you have a sunroom left."

"Well," Missouri replied, putting down her tea cup. "If I don't, I jus' gonna have to get your father to rebuild it, won't I?" She gave Dean a conspiratorial smile.

Dean looked around Missouri's house, its plain and neutral decorations. It had a lived-in feeling, the kind of feeling he got walking the floorboards of that grey house where everything began. He smirked, unusually contemplative.

"You know...maybe I could live here."

Missouri raised an eyebrow.

"Ain't that supposed to be a question, boy?"

Dean looked a little surprised.

"...in Lawrence," he clarified hastily. "Here in Lawrence."

"Well, then, that's different." She laughed and shook her head. "I swear...I'm gonna have to get used to this new style of yours..." She sighed and settled back. "...yes. I could see you doing quite nicely here."

Dean thought secretly and privately how he was glad Missouri _couldn't_ read his thoughts, because then she'd know the truth about him and Sam.

He looked down at his tea with consternation and he sipped it. He took it straight and bitter. Just like his coffee.

"I think you got a lot on your plate, Dean Winchester..." she said, in that soft tone of hers. She paused, then got up, taking Dean's cup when he was finished. She smiled down at him, and put a hand to the side of his head. "But you ain't doin' so bad handlin' it. You take all the time you need, boy." And after a moment she moved away, back into the kitchen.

\----

Dean babysat. The way he loved Jenny's kids snuck up on him. Ritchie loved “the Wiggles.” It was maybe the worst thing Dean had ever seen on television. He had never known his favorite medium could hurt him so deeply. They watched it together on the couch every day. Dean knew _songs_. Sari was at that age where she loved animals, and Dean took her to the zoo in Kansas City in the car Mike Guenther let him borrow after a _very_ awkward explanation that he and Sam had never been police officers and had, in fact (so Dean said), been looking for their father at the time. He carried Ritchie on his back while Sari ran from habitat to habitat and everything reminded Dean of Sam, and of the nameless child he never had the chance to raise. He saw the ghosts of his childhood walking the halls of Jenny’s home, and it was a happy place, now, like it had been, then.

Winter began to pass into spring, and the air in Kansas warmed. Missouri would sit on her porch with a steaming cup of tea, wrapped in her shawl, and every so often people would come by to have their fears quelled and have their hopes realized. 

She told Dean that she felt like there was something waiting patiently out there for him, not a spirit or a demon or anything like that, but as if the world itself was waiting to open itself to him. She started leaving him little chocolate biscuits when he came home.

Cassie and Reshay got married in their hometown church. Her mother and Reshay’s mother had very different visions for the wedding, and Dean spent a lot of time with Cassie’s best maid trying to keep them separated with Cassie on the verge of two bloody homicides.

She walked down the aisle in a gown that struck a balance between modern and traditional, a casualty of the war but it flattered her shapely figure. Her little flower girl tripped and fell down and Cassie and the music stopped until she got up, and the kid walked off her busted knee without a tear until the ceremony was over. Dean told her mom at the reception she’d grow up to be a firecracker. He didn’t quite fit in, but he didn’t stand out, either. 

The best maid dragged him onto the dance floor. Her name was Whitney and she was an _equestrian_.

The trees started to grow leaves, but it would be a few weeks yet before the flowers began to bloom on their boughs.

When the skies cleared of rain, John was looking in newspapers again. Articles would be circled in red, left on the kitchen table long after the older man had abandoned them.

It was what Dean had expected. He didn't mention it. He never brought it up. He pretended nothing was changing (not changing, returning to form), but sometimes he picked up those papers, papers from all around Kansas and states nearby, and he read the circled columns. 

Dean had saved up money to put down a payment on the car. It was an old Cadillac, a beast of a ride, solid as a rock -- a kind of robin's egg, aqua color, but Dean could fix that eventually. And once he had a car, again...well, that was freedom.

"Three persons gone missing at a school about two hundred miles south of here...I noted similar disappearances in the area about fifty years ago," John brought up, finally, at the beginning of April. He looked at his son. "Could be our kind of thing."

Dean met his father's eyes a long hard time. Loyalty warred with the passions inside him, until he realized he'd never be any less loyal.

"Your kind of thing," Dean said quietly.

John paused, then looked up from the paper he was reading. He didn't say anything, just looked curious.

"Don't know what my kind of thing is yet." Dean smiled, rueful, but he knew how he felt.

"What do you mean, son?"

"Way we live for nothin' but the hunt, only ever keep company with hunters...Little incestuous, innit?"

John balked a little, at the implication and at the word choice.

"It's just how its easiest, is all. It's not safe to live around normal people, or drag them into this, you know that, Dean."

"Drag them into what? There's no demon on our trail. And all those things in the dark...they're out there." Dean tried to find some understanding in his father's face. "I wanna find out what _else_ is out there."

John looked back at Dean blankly, no comprehension of what it was Dean was saying. There wasn't blame -- it was just that Dean was beyond him now. Something that John couldn't understand.

"...you want to leave, then," his father said, slowly, not accusatory, but perhaps a bit sad.

"Leave, stay in Lawrence..." Dean shrugged. He didn't know which, yet. It didn't matter which. "You said you wanted a home for me, Dad. Did you just mean a home base?"

John shook his head, trying to remember what it was he was feeling when he'd said that, what he'd really meant. He'd wanted for none of this to happen. For Dean to have grown up a normal boy, but that boat had sailed a long time ago. 

"I don't know what I meant, son...I guess I always figured that this was in your blood. That you'd always be a hunter, like me." And maybe he sounded a little beseeching there, as if he could pull Dean back into the dark with him and not have to be alone.

Dean closed his eyes, and he remembered a cabin in South Dakota and his own incomprehension. He remembered Sam's words, remembered them clear.

"I want my own life, Dad -- doesn't mean I don't want you in it." He said it, and he finally understood it, what Sam had said to him. "Doesn't mean I'm not a hunter. Always will be. I'll always know how. But I don't want that to be the only thing I am."

Now, as Dean had been then, John couldn't understand it. Their life had been so all or nothing for so long that it seemed shades of grey had been forgotten. But John Winchester didn't have the heart to disown the only son he had left, and he'd learned his mistakes from the last time.

"...alright," John said, finally, but he sounded like he doubted Dean's words, like he expected Dean'd come back soon enough. "Can't say I get it but...alright."

Dean grinned, a grin knowing with a wisdom hard earned. He loved his father, but he looked at him and he knew it wasn't his place to change him, and John didn't want to change himself.

"Got my cell phone," Dean assured him. "Check my messages."

John nodded, a bit tight lipped. He paused. 

"You goin' now?" the older man asked.

"Stayin' here till I buy that car off Mike. After that..." Dean half-shrugged. He didn't know. He didn't have any plans, and he didn't feel ready to make them.

"I see..." John nodded, but he didn't.

That was alright.

\----

Dean parked his car in front of Jenny’s house with a spring shower raining on the windows. It was two tons of quality parts. A car he could be proud to work on. Straight, hard lines to its body like his old Impala and ready to get a job done. It wasn’t a muscle car, but it was classic. Paint it black, Dean thought, and he could make it part of his style.

He stepped out into the rain, tugging up the collar of his jacket, his childhood home waiting for him by that old, twisted tree. The place his mom had died. The place his Sammy had been born. Where his mom had saved their lives. 

Dean didn’t hate it like he used to. When he grilled Ritchie a cheese sandwich on the stovetop he remembered his mother standing in the same place, stirring a pot of spaghetti, and he felt like maybe he was just starting to live.

He jogged up those concrete steps and heard the doorbell ring inside when he pressed it. It wasn’t the place he was going to stay for the rest of his life.

It was only a place to rest.

\----

Dean left Lawrence in June, with a full tank of gas and the earth wide and sloping in front of him.


End file.
